'Do you think he'll have to go out again?' she asked. 'I don't think he ought to--but they seem so short of men still. He's not really strong, you know.' So she knew nothing about the 'job'; and this put me in a hole. For if I told her about it, and he did not take it, but went out again, the knowledge would be a standing torture to her. On the other hand, I _wanted_ him to take it, I thought he ought to--and if she knew about it she might be able to make him. Wives can do a great deal in that way. But that would be disloyal to Harry.... Well, I temporized with vague answers while I wrestled with this problem, and she told me more about Harry. 'You know, he has the most _terrible_ dreams ... wakes up screaming at night, and quite frightens me. And I don't think they ought to be _allowed_ to go out again when they're like that.... I don't _want_ him to go out again.... At least,' she added half-heartedly (as a kind of concession to convention), 'if it's his duty, of course....' Then, defiantly, 'No, I _don't_ want him to go ... anyhow ... I think he's done his bit ... hasn't he, Mr. Benson?' 'He has, indeed,' I said, with sincerity at last. 'Well, you have some influence with him. Can't you----' But then Harry came in, and I had lost my chance. I have noticed that while on the stage, conversations which must necessarily be private are invariably concluded without interruption, in private life, and especially private houses, are always interrupted long before the end. Mrs. Harry went to the piano, and Harry and I sat down to smoke; and since it was the last night Harry was allowed to smoke his pipe. The way Mrs. Harry said that nearly made me weep. So I sat there and watched Harry, and his wife played and played--soft, melancholy, homesick things (Chopin, I think), that leagued with the wine and the warm fire and the deep chairs in an exquisite conspiracy of repose. She played for a long time, but I saw that she too was watching. And the fancy came to me that she was fighting for Harry, fighting, perhaps unconsciously, that vague danger she had seen at dinner, when it had beaten her ... fighting it with this music that made war seem so distant and home so lovable.... And soon I began to see that she was winning. For when she began playing Harry had sat down, a little restless again, and fidgeted, as if the music reminded him of good things too much ... and his eyes wandered round the room and took in all the familiar things, like a man saying good-bye--the old chair with the new chintz, and the yellow curtains, and the bookcase his father left him--and the little bookcase where his history books were (he looked a long time at them) ... and the firelight shining on the piano ... and his wife playing and playing.... And when he had looked at her, quickly, he sat up and poked the fire fiercely, and sat back, frowning. He was wondering again. This music was being too much for him. Then she stopped, and looked across at Harry--and smiled.