(He knew instantly, then, that Nellie was disturbed about something or other. Mother-in-law and daughter-in-law lived together under one roof in perfect amity. Nay, more, they often formed powerful and unscrupulous leagues against him. But whenever Nellie was disturbed, by no matter what, she would say "your mother" instead of merely "mother!" It was an extraordinary subtle, silly and effective way of putting him in the wrong.) "Your mother is staying upstairs with Robert." Robert was the eldest child, aged eight. "Oh!" breathed Edward Henry. He might have inquired what the nurse was for; he might have inquired how his mother meant to get her tea. But he refrained, adding simply, "What's up now?" And in retort to his wife's "your," he laid a faint emphasis on the word "now," to imply that those women were always inventing some fresh imaginary woe for the children. "Carlo's bitten him--in the calf," said Nellie, tightening her lips. This, at any rate, was not imaginary. "The kid was teasing him as usual, I suppose?" he suggested. "That I don't know," said Nellie. "But I know we must get rid of that dog." "Serious?" "Of course we must," Nellie insisted, with an inadvertent heat, which she immediately cooled. "I mean the bite." "Well--it's a bite right enough." "And you're thinking of hydrophobia, death amid horrible agony, and so on." "No, I'm not," she said stoutly, trying to smile. But he knew she was. And he knew also that the bite was a trifle. If it had been a good bite she would have made it enormous; she would have hinted that the dog had left a chasm in the boy's flesh. "Yes, you are," he continued to twit her, encouraged by her attempt at a smile. However, the smile expired. "I suppose you won't deny that Carlo's teeth may have been dirty? He's always nosing in some filth or other," she said challengingly, in a measured tone of sagacity. "And there may be blood-poisoning." "Blood fiddlesticks!" exclaimed Edward Henry. Such a nonsensical and infantile rejoinder deserved no answer, and it received none. Shortly afterwards Maud entered and whispered that Nellie was wanted upstairs. As soon as his wife had gone Edward Henry rang the bell. "Maud," he said, "bring me the _Signal_ out of my left-hand overcoat pocket." And he defiantly finished his meal at leisure, with the news of the day propped up against the flower-pot, which he had set before him instead of the dish of ham. III Later, catching through the open door fragments of a conversation on the stairs which indicated that his mother was at last coming down for tea, he sped like a threatened delinquent into the drawing-room. He had no wish to encounter his mother, though that woman usually said little.