“I hate to see men quarrel,” said she petulantly; “they always push each other about instead of reasoning.” Gomme laughed loud and long: “Ah, Julia,” said he, tenderly taking her hand in his; “there are some things beyond reason. Take ourselves. The reasons why a certain little woman finds reasons for not being reasonable--oh, bother!” The door shut with a loud slam, and Noll came into the room, trailing the office broom after him. “I say, Julia,” he said; “it’s very soothing and nice, but there’s some one coming.” He shot the broom into a corner, and vaulted on to his high stool, as Julia put herself as far from Netherby as the office would allow. Footsteps came to the door. CHAPTER III _Wherein Master Oliver comes to the Conclusion that, to complete the Dramatic Picture, Greatness should have known the Hair-Shirt and the Makeshifts of Adversity._ The door swung open, and a handsome woman of about thirty walked into the dingy room. She was possessed of that calm and the fresh easy manner and movement that come of generations of women who have exacted respect from their fellows--and given it. Netherby Gomme went to meet her, and as she shut the door she held out her gloved hand to him: “How are you, Mrs. Baddlesmere?” said he. “How are you, Netherby?” It was a charming voice that spoke. “Julia, too! why this thusness?” Julia blushed and smiled embarrassedly: Mrs. Baddlesmere turned to the boy: “Hard at work, Noll?” Noll shrugged his shoulders, where he sat hunched on his office-stool: “No, mother, I miss my tobacco,” said he. Mrs. Baddlesmere laughed lightly. “Don’t be stupid, Noll. Remember, you promised me--for a fortnight, you ridiculous child.” Noll smiled dryly: “Mother still thinks I am in knickerbockers,” said he. “She wanted me to wear a sailor hat last summer with ribbons hanging down behind and _H.M.S. Sardine_ on it in gold letters. Women have the strangest ideas about men’s clothes--even the married ones.” Caroline Baddlesmere went to the boy and put her arm through his. “What an inky state you get into, my dear Noll!” she said. “Literature is not to be made without the spilling of much ink,” said Noll. Caroline Baddlesmere sighed sadly. “Well, Noll, after to-day you need not trouble with the spilling of ink,” she said. “Why, mother?” Mrs. Baddlesmere turned to Gomme: “I suppose, Netherby, you know that our days at the old office are over--that we have failed to make the ends of this paper meet!” “Mr. Baddlesmere has told me,” he said simply. It struck him painfully, in spite of the calm of the delicate woman who stood before him, that she too had been told the worst not very long: “I am afraid,” he added, “it is a very anxious time for you, Mrs. Baddlesmere.”