“Oh, I will go and see how the poor dear feels. So bad of you to hide it from us.” “Oh, please sit down,” said Herbert in a voice of anguish. “I assure you it is nothing very much. She will be in directly. Make yourself at home, Mrs. Hargreaves. This chair? Mother, show Mrs. Atkinson Brown Clare’s latest photograph.” “Oh, yes!” said Mrs. Heywood. “It is an excellent likeness.” “But I want to see Clare herself!” said Mrs. Atkinson Brown plaintively. “Sit down, Beatrice!” said her husband. “Bully!” said Mrs. Atkinson Brown, sitting down with a flop. Herbert addressed himself to Mr. Hargreaves. “Draw up your chair, sir. You will have a cigar, I am sure.” He offered him one from a newly opened box. Mr. Hargreaves took one, smelled it, and then put it back. “No, thanks,” he said. “I will have one of my own, if I may. Sure the ladies don’t mind?” “Oh, they like it,” said Herbert. “We have to pretend to,” said Mrs. Hargreaves. “Well, if you don’t, you ought to,” said her husband. “It’s a man’s privilege.” Mrs. Hargreaves smiled icily. “One of his many privileges.” “Will you have a cigarette, Mrs. Hargreaves?” said Herbert. But Mr. Hargreaves interposed: “Oh, I don’t allow my wife to smoke. It’s a beastly habit.” Mr. Atkinson Brown, who had accepted one of Herbert’s cigars, but after some inquiry had also decided to smoke one of his own, applauded this sentiment with enthusiasm. “Hear, hear! Hear, hear! Disgusting habit for women.” “Of course I agree with you,” said Herbert. “Clare never smokes. But I don’t lay down the law for other people’s wives.” Mr. Hargreaves laughed. “A very sound notion, Heywood. It takes all one’s time to manage one’s own, eh?” “And then it is not always effective,” said his wife. “Even the worm will turn.” Mr. Hargreaves answered his wife with a heavy retort: “If it does I knock it on the head with a spade.” Mr. Atkinson Brown laughed loudly again. He seemed to like this man Hargreaves. “Good epigram! By Jove, I must remember that!” Herbert was on tenter-hooks when the conversation languished a little. “Won’t you sing a song, Mrs. Atkinson Brown? I am sure my friend, Mr. Hargreaves, will appreciate your voice.” “Oh, rather!” said Hargreaves. “Though I don’t pretend to understand a note of music.” Mrs. Atkinson Brown shook her head: “I couldn’t think of singing before our hostess appears.” The lady’s husband seemed at last to have caught the spirit of her suspicion. He spoke in a hoarse whisper to his wife: “Where the devil _is_ the woman?” Herbert Heywood realized that he was on the edge of a precipice. Not much longer could he hold on to this intolerable situation. He tried to speak cheerfully, but there was anguish in his voice when he said: “Well, let’s have a game of nap.” “Oh, Lord, no,” said Hargreaves. “I only play nap on the way to a race. You don’t sport a billiard table, do you?” Herbert Heywood was embarrassed.