“Herbert and I can hardly hear ourselves speak,” he growled, “you keep up such a clatter.” Mrs. Atkinson Brown flared up. “I come out to get the chance of speaking a little. For eight years now I have been listening to your interminable monologues, and can’t get a word in edgeways.” “Stuff and nonsense!” said her husband. “Have you been married eight years already, my dear?” asked Mrs. Heywood in a tone of amiable surprise. “Well, we are in our Eighth Year,” said Mrs. Atkinson Brown. Mrs. Heywood seemed startled. “Oh, I see,” she said thoughtfully. “I assure you it seems longer,” said the lady. “I suppose it’s because Charles makes me so very tired sometimes.” Two other visitors now arrived. They were Mr. Hargreaves and his wife: the former a young man in immaculate evening clothes, with lofty manners; the latter a tall, thin, elegant, bored-looking woman, supercilious and snobbish. Herbert went forward hurriedly to his new guests. “How splendid of you to come! How are you, sir?” “Oh, pretty troll-loll, thanks,” said Mr. Hargreaves. Herbert shook hands with Mrs. Hargreaves. “How do you do?” “We’re rather late,” said the lady, “but this is in an out-of-the-way neighborhood, is it not?” “Oh, do you think so?” said Herbert. “I always considered Battersea Park very central.” Mrs. Hargreaves raised her eyebrows. “It’s having to get across the river that makes the journey so very tedious. I should die if I had to live across the river.” “There’s something in what you say,” said Herbert, anxious to agree with everybody. “I must apologize for dragging you all this way. Of course, you people in Mayfair----Won’t you sit down?” Mr. Hargreaves became a victim of mistaken identity, shaking hands with Mrs. Atkinson Brown. “Mrs. Heywood, I presume. I must introduce myself.” Mrs. Hargreaves also greeted the other lady, under the same impression. “Oh, how do you do? So delighted to make your acquaintance.” Mrs. Atkinson Brown was much amused, and laughed gaily. “But I am _not_ Mrs. Heywood. I cannot boast of such a handsome husband!” “Oh, can’t you, by Jove!” said Mr. Atkinson Brown, rather nettled by his wife’s candor. “Oh, I beg pardon,” said Mr. Hargreaves. “Where _is_ Mrs. Heywood?” “Yes, where is Mrs. Heywood?” said his wife. Herbert looked wildly at his mother. “Where is she, mother? Do tell her to hurry up. “Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood meekly. She moved uncertainly toward the bedroom door, and then hesitated: “Perhaps she will not be very long now.” “The fact is,” said Herbert desperately, “she is not very well.” Mrs. Atkinson Brown was astounded. “But you said she was perfectly well!” “Did I?” said Herbert. “Oh, well, er--one has to say these things, you know. Polite fictions, eh?” He laughed nervously. “The fact is, she has a little headache. Hasn’t she, mother?” “Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood. “You know best.” Mrs. Atkinson Brown rose from her chair again.