Gilbert had been out all the morning, and he came back from the City looking rather tired. An exchange of smiles, a little strained and a little hard on one side, a little wistful and a little sad on the other, had become the conventional greeting between the two, so too had the inquiry, “Did you sleep well?” which was the legitimate property of whosoever thought first of this original question. They were in the midst of lunch when she asked suddenly-- “Would you like me to give a dinner party?” He looked up with a start. “A dinner party!” he said incredulously, then, seeing her face drop, and realising something of the sacrifice which she might be making, he added, “I think it is an excellent idea. Whom would you like to invite?” “Any friends you have,” she said, “that rather nice man Mr. Frankfort, and---- Who else?” she asked. He smiled a little grimly. “I think that rather nice man Mr. Frankfort about exhausts the sum of my friends,” he said with a little laugh. “We might ask Warrell.” “Who is Warrell? Oh, I know,” she said quickly, “he is mother’s broker.” He looked at her curiously. “Your mother’s broker,” he repeated slowly, “is he really?” “Why?” she asked. “Why what?” he evaded. “Why did you say that so queerly?” “I did not know that I did,” he said carelessly, “only somehow one doesn’t associate your mother with a broker. Yet I suppose she finds an agent necessary in these days. You see, he is my broker too.” “Who else?” she asked. “On my side of the family,” he said with mock solemnity, “I can think of nobody. What about your mother?” “I could ask one or two nice people,” she went on, ignoring the suggestion. “What about your mother?” he said again. She looked up, her eyes filled with tears. “Please do not be horrid,” she said. “You know that is impossible.” “Not at all,” he answered cheerfully. “I made the suggestion in all good faith; I think it is a good one. After all, there is no reason why this absurd quarrel should go on. I admit I felt very sore with her; but then I even felt sore with you!” He looked at her not unkindly. “The soreness is gradually wearing away,” he said. He spoke half to himself, though he looked at the girl. It seemed to her that he was trying to convince himself of something in which he did not wholly believe. “It is extraordinary,” he said, “how little things, little worries, and petty causes for unhappiness disappear in the face of a really great trouble.” “What is your great trouble?” she asked, quick to seize the advantage which he had given her in that unguarded moment. “None,” he said. His tone was a little louder than usual, it was almost defiant. “I am speaking hypothetically. “I have no trouble save the very obvious troubles of life,” he went on. “You were a trouble to me for quite a little time, but you are not any more.”