A difficult pass for him, as regards his mother! This was the first time he had ever overtly spoken of the theatre in his mother’s presence. In the best bedroom he had talked of it, but even there with a certain self-consciousness and false casualness. Now his mother stared straight in front of her with an expression of which she alone among human beings had the monopoly. "I should like to," said Nellie generously. "Well," said he, "I’ve got to go back to town to-morrow. Wilt come with me, lass?" "Don’t be silly, Edward Henry," said she. "How can I leave Mother in the middle of all this spring-cleaning?" "You needn’t leave Mother. We’ll take her too," said Edward Henry lightly. "You won’t!" observed Mrs. Machin. "I _have_ to go to-morrow, Nell," said Edward Henry. "And I was thinking you might as well come with me. It will be a change for you." (He said to himself: "And not only have I to go to-morrow, but you absolutely must come with me, my girl. That’s the one thing to do.") "It would be a change for me," Nellie agreed. She was beyond doubt flattered and calmly pleased. "But I can’t possibly come to-morrow. You can see that for yourself, dear." "No, I can’t!" he cried impatiently. "What does it matter? Mother’ll be here. The kids’ll be all right. After all, spring cleaning isn’t the day of judgment." "Edward Henry," said his mother, cutting in between them like a thin blade, "I wish you wouldn’t be blasphemous. London’s London, and Bursley’s Bursley." She had finished. "It’s quite out of the question for me to come to-morrow, dear. I must have notice. I really must." And Edward Henry saw with alarm that Nellie had made up her mind, and that the flattered calm pleasure in his suggestion had faded from her face. "Oh, dash these domesticated women!" he thought, and shortly afterwards departed, brooding, to the offices of the Thrift Club. VIII.