“Hullo, Maddison, off to Brighton? Come along with us, I’ve got a compartment—lots of room, and the missis and Miss Lane. Mrs. West’s not been up to much lately, and the doctor says ‘Brighton.’ Might be worse; some pokey, invalidy place down in the South. I can manage to amuse myself in Brighton, and it’s convenient for town anyway.” “Nothing much the matter, I hope?” “Oh, nothing at all, probably; translated into brutal truth, the doctor said she ate too many sweets and nonsense and too little food. Run down.” Maddison thought West’s manner rather callous, and wondered what Marian would feel if he ever came to speak so lightly of her. Was West already finding out the emptiness of his house of love? Mrs. West greeted Maddison effusively, and Miss Lane did so quietly; a minute later they were rushing along Southward Ho! “What brings you out of town, Maddison?” West asked. “Work. I’ve got some work I want to do and don’t seem to settle down to it in town.” “But is Brighton any better for work?” Mrs. West said, as she snuggled down into her corner and drew her furs closely round her. Maddison thought she looked all the prettier for her frailty. “I’m not going to Brighton,” he answered; “I’ve got a cottage over at Rottingdean, two rooms and a kitchen. I’m going to settle down there for a bit.” “How nice! We can run over in the motor, and you can begin my portrait right away. Will you?” West laughed, hoping that the direct question would embarrass Maddison, who replied promptly: “That will do splendidly, if you’re stopping long enough.” “We _will_ stop long enough. I’m so glad to have an excuse for not going back too soon. The country’s stupid in the winter and Brighton’s jolly, although Philip did try to grumble about coming.” “‘Try’ is the word,” rejoined West, biting the end of his cigar; “try! When you get married, Maddison, you’ll remember that little word ‘try.’” “Don’t be naughty, Philip,” said Mrs. West, pouting. “You know you always have your own way, except about grumbling. Life’s too short for grumbling, isn’t it, Mr. Maddison?” “Much. Your husband as a business man ought to know better than to waste his time.” “What a prosaic view to take!” Mrs. West answered. “He ought to leave business behind him in the office and just waste his time when he’s at home. But all men are prosaic, I think.” “And all women are—?” asked West. “Just what you like to make them,” his wife replied. “That’s the worst of it—what _we_ are depends on what _you_ are.” “What do you say to such views, Alice?” West said, appealing to Miss Lane, who was looking out of the window at the miles of dreary suburbs flying by. “Nothing!” she answered. “You know I never theorize about things. What’s the use of it?” “Practical, steady, unemotional Alice!” laughed Mrs. West; but Maddison knew better, for he caught a glimpse of a look of contemptuous scorn before Miss Lane turned away again to the window. “Where are you going to put up?” Maddison asked.