"Oh!" she twitted. "I see that you have made up your mind to let them have the play, after all." "Yes, I have," he answered, savagely. "Perhaps you meant to do it all along?" "Perhaps I did." "Very well, then," said Louise. "Would you mind coming to the train with me on your way down town to-morrow?" "Not at all." XXII. In the morning neither of them recurred to what Louise had said of her going home for a few days. She had apparently made no preparation for the journey; but if she was better than her words in this, he was quite as bad as his in going down town after breakfast to let Grayson have the play, no matter whom he should get to do Salome. He did not reiterate his purpose, but she knew from the sullen leave, or no-leave, which he took of her, that it was fixed. When he was gone she had what seemed to her the very worst quarter of an hour she had ever known; but when he came back in the afternoon, looking haggard but savage, her ordeal had long been over. She asked him quietly if they had come to any definite conclusion about the play, and he answered, with harsh aggression, yes, that Mrs. Harley had agreed to take the part of Salome; Godolphin's old company had been mostly got together, and they were to have the first rehearsal the next morning. "Should you like me to come some time?" asked Louise. "I should like you very much to come," said Maxwell, soberly, but with a latent doubt of her meaning, which she perceived. "I have been thinking," she said, "whether you would like me to call on Mrs. Harley this evening with you?" "What for?" he demanded, suspiciously. "Well, I don't know. I thought it might be appropriate." Maxwell thought a moment. "I don't think it would be expected. After all, it isn't a personal thing," he said, with a relenting in his defiance. "No," said Louise. They got through the evening without further question. They had always had some sort of explicit making-up before, even when they had only had a tacit falling out, but this time Louise thought there had better be none of that. They were to rehearse the play every day that week, and Maxwell said he must be at the theatre the next morning at eleven. He could not make out to his wife's satisfaction that he was of much use, but he did not try to convince her. He only said that they referred things to him now and then, and that generally he did not seem to know much about them. She saw that his aesthetic honesty kept him from pretending to more than this, and she believed he ought to have greater credit than he claimed.