Her father’s cup was half emptied. He had come to tea late, after the others had left the table. Evidently he had not finished, but he made no reply, neither did Beatrice. Vera glanced disgustedly at her father. Gwen sidled up to her mother, and tried to break the tension. “Mam, there was a lady had a dog, and it ran into a shop, and it licked a sheep, Mam, what was hanging up.” Beatrice sat fixed, and paid not the slightest attention. The child looked up at her, waited, then continued softly. “Mam, there was a lady had a dog—” “Don’t bother!” snapped Vera sharply. The child looked, wondering and resentful, at her sister. Vera was taking the things from the table, snatching them, and thrusting them on the tray. Gwen’s eyes rested a moment or two on the bent head of her father; then deliberately she turned again to her mother, and repeated in her softest and most persuasive tones: “Mam, I saw a dog, and it ran in a butcher’s shop and licked a piece of meat. Mam, Mam!” There was no answer. Gwen went forward and put her hand on her mother’s knee. “Mam!” she pleaded timidly. No response. “Mam!” she whispered. She was desperate. She stood on tiptoe, and pulled with little hands at her mother’s breast. “Mam!” she whispered shrilly. Her mother, with an effort of self-denial, put off her investment of tragedy, and, laying her arm round the child’s shoulders, drew her close. Gwen was somewhat reassured, but not satisfied. With an earnest face upturned to the impassive countenance of her mother, she began to whisper, sibilant, coaxing, pleading. “Mam, there was a lady, she had a dog—” Vera turned sharply to stop this whispering, which was too much for her nerves, but the mother forestalled her. Taking the child in her arms, she averted her face, put her cheek against the baby cheek, and let the tears run freely. Gwen was too much distressed to cry. The tears gathered very slowly in her eyes, and fell without her having moved a muscle in her face. Vera remained in the scullery, weeping tears of rage, and pity, and shame into the towel. The only sound in the room was the occasional sharp breathing of Beatrice. Siegmund sat without the trace of a movement, almost without breathing. His head was ducked low; he dared never lift it, he dared give no sign of his presence. Presently Beatrice put down the child, and went to join Vera in the scullery. There came the low sound of women’s talking—an angry, ominous sound. Gwen followed her mother. Her little voice could be heard cautiously asking: “Mam, is dad cross—is he? What did he do?” “Don’t bother!” snapped Vera. “You _are_ a little nuisance! Here, take this into the dining-room, and don’t drop it.” The child did not obey. She stood looking from her mother to her sister. The latter pushed a dish into her hand. “Go along,” she said, gently thrusting the child forth.