Three gentlemen came, before a month was out, to Beatrice’s establishment. She hoped shortly to get a fourth or a fifth. Her plan was to play hostess, and thus bestow on her boarders the inestimable blessing of family life. Breakfast was at eight-thirty, and everyone attended. Vera sat opposite Beatrice, Frank sat on the maternal right hand; Mr MacWhirter, who was _superior_, sat on the left hand; next him sat Mr Allport, whose opposite was Mr Holiday. All were young men of less than thirty years. Mr MacWhirter was tall, fair, and stoutish; he was very quietly spoken, was humorous and amiable, yet extraordinarily learned. He never, by any chance, gave himself away, maintaining always an absolute reserve amid all his amiability. Therefore Frank would have done anything to win his esteem, while Beatrice was deferential to him. Mr Allport was tall and broad, and thin as a door; he had also a remarkably small chin. He was naïve, inclined to suffer in the first pangs of disillusionment; nevertheless, he was waywardly humorous, sometimes wistful, sometimes petulant, always gallant. Therefore Vera liked him, whilst Beatrice mothered him. Mr Holiday was short, very stout, very ruddy, with black hair. He had a disagreeable voice, was vulgar in the grain, but officiously helpful if appeal were made to him. Therefore Frank hated him. Vera liked his handsome, lusty appearance, but resented bitterly his behaviour. Beatrice was proud of the superior and skilful way in which she handled him, clipping him into shape without hurting him. One evening in July, eleven months after the burial of Siegmund, Beatrice went into the dining-room and found Mr Allport sitting with his elbow on the window-sill, looking out on the garden. It was half-past seven. The red rents between the foliage of the trees showed the sun was setting; a fragrance of evening-scented stocks filtered into the room through the open window; towards the south the moon was budding out of the twilight. “What, you here all alone!” exclaimed Beatrice, who had just come from putting the children to bed. “I thought you had gone out.” “No—o! What’s the use,” replied Mr Allport, turning to look at his landlady, “of going out? There’s nowhere to go.” “Oh, come! There’s the Heath, and the City—and you must join a tennis club. Now I know just the thing—the club to which Vera belongs.” “Ah, yes! You go down to the City—but there’s nothing there—what I mean to say—you want a pal—and even then—well”—he drawled the word—“we-ell, it’s merely escaping from yourself—killing time.” “Oh, don’t say that!” exclaimed Beatrice. “You want to enjoy life.” “Just so! Ah, just so!” exclaimed Mr Allport. “But all the same—it’s like this—you only get up to the same thing tomorrow. What I mean to say—what’s the good, after all? It’s merely living because you’ve got to.”