The meal had been ordered with special care. Few women, accustomed daily to study the tastes of their men at home before their own choice of dishes, can resist the subtle appeal of a menu, ordered by one of the opposite sex, in which each item shows an unselfish effort to please the invited guest. Mrs. Uniacke ate lobster and crisp salad (which she loved)--grouse (sternly forbidden at home on the score of extravagance) and confessed gaily to greediness when a chocolate souffle was laid before her followed up by hothouse peaches and a fragrant cup of coffee. Even her favourite "marrons glaces" graced the narrow luncheon table and the air was sweet with the scent of roses in their last glory of second bloom. "What a banquet! My dear boy--I'm afraid you've ruined yourself for me. But I really have enjoyed it so!" (The champagne had done its work. Like all women who suffer from nerves alcohol took immediate effect, to be followed, however, by a reaction almost as quick, and lachrymose.) Stephen knew this and decided to burn his boats without delay. "Nothing's good enough for you!" He left his seat and handed her a cigarette with a smile. But she laughed it away, her eyes bright. "I never smoke--you know that, Stephen." "Try one. I think you'd look prettier still..." he checked himself. "Sorry--it slipped out!--I forgot you always hated compliments." "You forget I'm an old woman!" She caught at the phrase in self-defence. "Old enough to be your mother." "_You_...?"--he stooped over her--"I ... sometimes ... almost wish you were!" "Stephen!"--she drew away, startled. "You mustn't talk like that!" But she felt a curious exultation, a sudden throb of fear and pride. For oh! Youth is sweet to hold and sad to lose; and a woman clings to the delusion for long years after grey hairs appear. "Well--I do. You're too ... sweet! Don't you know what it means to me? Have you never _even_ guessed?" He broke off, his eyes dilated. Mrs. Uniacke shrank back. "Don't--you mustn't. Stephen!--you're mad!" ... For the man was on his knees by her side; her hands were caught, she could feel his lips, smooth and young, pressed upon them. "I can't help it!--You know _now_. Of course you'll send me out of your life. But, this once, I've got to tell you--I love you so!"--the words were out. And, indeed, a spark of truth lay in the declaration. This lover's scene, carefully rehearsed by him, found him amazed at the strength of his own desire. He stood upon the brink of passion. For habit plays queer tricks, and the daily intercourse of years had flowered unseen. This was the fruit. All that was good in Somerfield went out toward the loving woman who had played the part of mother to him, a lonely man through his own folly. And all that was base prompted him to take this chance that life still offered: a home, the tender care of a wife in the midst of financial ruin.