“Ill? No. Bad-tempered, what you might call melancholy. Not lately. Well, since the dance he has been different. Not so irritable at breakfast. I told you once before, love, how I dreaded breakfast, with John late half the time, going out with the dogs, and Mr. Batty behind the paper with his eyebrows up, and Charles looking as if he’d been dug up, like Lazarus, if it isn’t wrong to say so, pale and pasty and sorry he was alive—sort of damp, dear. Well, you know what I mean. But as I tell you, he’s been more cheerful. That dance must have done him good, or something has. And Mr. Batty tells me he takes more interest in his work. Still,” Mrs. Batty admitted, “he does catch me up at times.” “Yes, I know. About music. I know. He’s queer. I hate it when he gets angry and shouts, but he’s good really, in his heart.” “Oh, of course he is,” Mrs. Batty murmured, and, looking at the plump hands on her silken lap, she added, “I wish he’d marry. Now, John, he’s engaged; but he didn’t need to be. You know what I mean. He was happy enough before, but Charles, if he could marry a nice girl—” “He won’t,” Henrietta said at once, and Mrs. Batty, suddenly alert, asked sharply, “Why not?” “Oh, I don’t know. Men are so easily deceived.” “We can’t help it. You wouldn’t neglect a baby. Well, then, it’s the same thing. They never get out of their short frocks. Even Mr. Batty,” his wife chuckled, “he’s very clever and all that, but he’s like all the rest. The very minute you marry, you’ve got a baby on your hands.” Henrietta sighed. “It isn’t fair,” she murmured, yet she liked the notion. Francis Sales was a baby. He would have to be managed, to be amused; he would tire of his toys. She knew that, and she saw herself constantly dressing up the old ones and deceiving him into believing they were new. “I suppose they’re worth it,” she half questioned. “Men?” “No, babies,” Henrietta answered, meaning the same thing, but Mrs. Batty took her up with fervour. She was reminiscent, and tears came into her eyes; she was prophetic, she was embarrassing and faintly disgusting to Henrietta, and when the door opened to let in Charles, she welcomed him with a pleasure which was really the measure of her relief. She had not seen him since she had parted from him in the car. He did not return her smile and it struck her that he never smiled. It was a good thing: it would have made him look odder than ever, and somehow he contrived to show his happiness without the display of teeth. His eyes, she decided, bulged most when he was miserable, and now they hardly bulged at all. “You’re back early to-day, dear,” Mrs. Batty said. “I’ll have some fresh tea made.” But Charles, without averting his gaze from Henrietta, said, “I don’t want any tea,” and to Henrietta he said quietly, “I haven’t seen you for weeks.”