“Mrs. Herbert Heywood, _Mrs._ Herbert Heywood, Mrs. Herbert Heywood, Mrs. Herbert--Why, every jack one is for Mrs. Herbert Heywood! Nobody writes to me, of course. No one cares a damn about _me_.” “Your mother cares, Herbert,” said the old lady. “I shall take to drink--or the devil,” said Herbert, and he added thoughtfully, “I wonder which is the most fun?” “Herbert, dear!” cried his mother, “don’t say such awful things.” “The worst of it is,” said Herbert bitterly, “they’re both so beastly expensive.” There was the noise of a latchkey in the hall, and Mrs. Heywood gave a little cry. “There’s Clare!” “Think so?” said Herbert, listening. From the hall came the sound of Clare’s voice singing a merry tune. “She’s in a cheerful mood, anyhow,” said Mrs. Heywood, smiling. Herbert answered her gloomily. “Horribly cheerful.” The mother and son looked toward the door as Clare came in. There was a noticeable change in her appearance since the evening At Home. There was more color in her cheeks and the wistfulness had gone out of her eyes. She was brisk, keen and bright. “Well, mother,” she said, “been having a nap?” “Oh, no, dear,” said the old lady, who never admitted that she made a habit of naps. “Hulloh, Herbert,” said Clare. “Have you got that new post yet?” “No,” said Herbert. “And I don’t expect I shall get it.” “Oh, yes, you will, dear old boy. Don’t you worry! Have you been home long?” “Seems like a lifetime.” Clare laughed. “Not so long as that, surely?” She came forward to him and put her arm about his neck, and offered him her cheek. He looked at it doubtfully for a moment and then kissed her in a “distant” manner. “I’m frightfully busy, old boy,” said Clare. “I just have a few minutes and then I shall have to dash off again.” “Dash off where?” asked Herbert, with signs of extreme irritation. “Dash it all, surely you aren’t going out again?” “Only round the corner,” said Clare quietly. “I have got to look into the case of a poor creature who is making match-boxes. Goodness knows how many for a farthing! And yet she’s so cheerful and plucky that it does one good to see her. Oh, it kills one’s own selfishness, Herbert.” “Well, why worry about her, then, if she’s so pleased with herself?” “She’s plucky,” said Clare, “but she’s starving. It’s a bad case of sweated labor.” “Sweated humbug,” said Herbert. “What am I going to do all the evening, I should like to know? Sit here alone?” “I don’t suppose I shall be long,” said Clare. “Besides, there’s mother.” “Yes, there’s mother,” said Herbert. “But when a man’s married he wants his wife.” Clare was now busy looking over her letters. “Can’t you go to the club?” she asked. “I’m dead sick of the club. That boiled-shirt Bohemianism is the biggest rot in the world.” “Take mother to the theatre,” said Clare cheerfully. “The theatre bores me stiff. These modern plays set one’s nerves on edge.”