“Er--a billiard table?” He looked round the room as though he might discover a billiard table. “I’m afraid not.” “Don’t be absurd, Edward,” said Mrs. Hargreaves. “People don’t play billiards on the wrong side of the river.” Conversation languished again, and Herbert was becoming desperate. He seized upon the sandwiches and handed them round. “Won’t anybody have a sandwich to pass the time away? Mrs. Hargreaves?” Mrs. Hargreaves laughed in her supercilious way. “It’s rather early, isn’t it?” “Good Lord, no!” said Herbert. “I am sure you must be hungry. Let me beg of you--Mother, haven’t you got any cake anywhere?” “Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood. She, too, was suffering mental tortures. “Atkinson Brown. You will have a sandwich,” said Herbert. He bent over to his visitor and spoke in a gloomy voice: “Take one, for God’s sake.” Atkinson Brown was startled. “Yes! Yes! By all means,” he said hastily. Herbert handed the sandwiches about rather wildly. “Mother, you will have one, won’t you? Mrs. Atkinson Brown?... And one for me, eh?” Mrs. Hargreaves eyed her host curiously. “I hope your wife is not seriously unwell, Mr. Heywood.” Herbert was losing his nerve. “Can’t we talk of something else?” he said despairingly. “What is your handicap at golf?” “My husband objects to my playing golf,” said the lady. “It takes women out of the home so much,” said Hargreaves. “Play with the babies is my motto for women.” Mrs. Atkinson Brown shook her finger at him, and laughed in a shrill voice: “But supposing they haven’t got any babies?” “They ought to have ‘em,” said Hargreaves. It was Atkinson Brown who interrupted this interesting discussion, which promised to bring up the great problem of eugenics, so favored now as a drawing-room topic. He had been turning his sandwich this way and that, and he leaned forward to his host: “Excuse me, Herbert, old man. There’s something the matter with this sandwich.” “Something the matter with it?” asked Herbert anxiously. “It’s covered with red spots,” said Atkinson Brown. “Spots--what kind of spots?” “Looks like blood,” said Atkinson Brown, giving an uneasy guffaw. “Suppose there hasn’t been a murder in this flat?” All the guests leaned forward and gazed at the sandwich. Herbert spoke in a tragic whisper to his mother: “Mollie’s finger!” Then he explained the matter airily to the general company. “Oh, it’s a special kind of sandwich with the gravy outside. A new fad, you know.” “Oh, I see,” said Atkinson Brown, much relieved. “Hadn’t heard of it. Still, I think I’ll have an ordinary one, if you don’t mind.” Herbert was muttering little prayers remembered from his childhood. “Mrs. Hargreaves,” he said cajolingly, “I am sure you play. Won’t you give us a little tune?” “Well, if it won’t disturb your wife,” said the lady. “Oh, I am sure it won’t. She’ll love to hear you.” He felt immensely grateful to this good-natured woman. “Edward, get my music-roll,” said Mrs. Hargreaves.