“She’s always got a committee meeting,” said Herbert angrily, kicking the hassock. “She joins a new committee for some kind of social reform nonsense every blessed day.” “Well, it keeps her busy, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood gently. “Besides, it is not all committee work. Since she has been visiting the poor and helping in the slums she has been ever so much better in health and spirits.” “Yes, but where the devil do I come in?” asked Herbert. “Don’t you think you might go out, dear? Just for a little while?” “I don’t _want_ to go out, mother,” said Herbert with suppressed heat. “Very well, dear.” Herbert stood in front of the fireplace and rattled the keys in his pocket moodily. “What’s the good of toiling to keep a home together if one’s wife abandons her husband’s society on every possible pretext? A home! This place is just a receiving office for begging letters and notices for committees and subcommittees.” Mrs. Heywood sighed. “It might have been worse, Herbert.” “As far as I’m concerned, it couldn’t be worse. I’m the most miserable wretch in London. Without a job and without a wife.” “You’ll get a place all right, dear. You have the promise of one already. And you know Clare’s health was in a very queer state before Miss Vernon made her take an interest in helping other people. I was seriously alarmed about her.” “What about me?” asked Herbert. “No one troubles to get alarmed about me.” “Are you unwell, dear?” said Mrs. Hey-wood anxiously. “Of course I’m unwell.” “Darling!” said Mrs. Heywood, still more anxiously. “Oh, there’s nothing the matter with me from a physical point of view. But mentally and morally I’m a demnition wreck.” “Aren’t you taking your iron pills regularly?” said his mother. “Pills! As if pills could cure melancholia!” Mrs. Heywood was aghast at that dreadful word. “Good Heavens, dear!” “I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown,” said Herbert. “Oh, Herbert,” cried his mother, “I hope not!” “I’m working up to a horrible crisis,” said Herbert. “What are your symptoms? How do you feel?” asked his mother. “I feel like smashing things,” said Herbert savagely. He sat down at the piano again and played “We Won’t Go Home Till Morning,” but missed his note, and banged on to the wrong one in a temper. “There goes a note, anyhow. Thank goodness for that!” At that moment Mollie came in holding a silver tray with a pile of letters. “The post, sir.” “Well, something to break the infernal monotony,” said Herbert with a sigh of relief. He took up the letters and examined them. “Life is a bit flat, sir,” said Mollie, “since we gave up having At Homes.” “Hold your tongue,” said Herbert. Mollie tossed her head and muttered an impertinent sentence as she left the room. “Can’t even open my mouth without somebody jumping down my throat. I will break that girl’s neck one of these days,” said Herbert. He went through the letters and read out the names on them.