Geoffrey put down his pen and drew a long sigh. It was easy to see that he dreaded a discussion, and was most unwillingly drawn into its toils. "Since you ask me, Joan, I was disappointed that you had taken so little personal trouble over the affair. I could have given the money easily enough; when I refused I was thinking more of you than of any one else. I hoped this bazaar might be the means of taking you out of yourself, of bringing you in contact with people whose lives are not altogether given up to self-indulgence. Your one idea seems to have been to avoid such a course." "You would have liked me to have sewing meetings here as Mrs Ewart has at the vicarage: plain sewing from two to four, and then tea and buns. You would have liked to see me sitting in the evening embroidering wild roses on tray cloths, and binding shaving-cases with blue ribbon?" "I would," said Geoffrey sturdily. He did not smile, as he had been expected to do, but sat grim and grave, refusing to be cajoled. Esmeralda's anger mounted once more. "Then I call it stupid and bigoted, and I absolutely disagree. If I'm to waste my time, I'll waste it in my own way, not in perpetrating atrocities to disfigure another home. And I hate village sewing meetings and the dull, ugly frumps who go to them." Mr Hilliard took up his pen, squared his elbows, and quietly began to write. "Geoffrey, can't you answer when I speak to you! I'm not a child to be cowed and snubbed! I--I hate you when you get into this superior mood!" Geoffrey lifted his face--was it the strong east light which made it suddenly appear so lined and worn? There was no anger in his face, only a very pitiful sadness. "I am afraid there are many moods in which you `hate' me, Esmeralda." The look on his face, the sound of the old pet name were too much for the warm Irish heart. In a moment his wife was on her knees beside him, holding his hands, pressing them to her lips, stroking them with caressing fingers. "Geoff, Geoff, it isn't true; you know it isn't. I always love you, I always did. You know it is true. I was ready to marry you when I thought you hadn't a penny. I wanted nothing but yourself." "I never forget it," said Geoffrey deeply; "I never can. Sometimes-- sometimes I wish it had been true, it might have been better for us both. `All that riches can buy' has not made a happy woman of you, Esmeralda." He stroked back the hair from her broad, low brow, looking with troubled eyes at the fine lines which already marked its surface. "I can give my wife many treasures, but apparently not the thing she needs most of all--the happiness which Dick Victor manages to provide for Bridgie on a few hundreds a year!"