“You are too pessimistic altogether for a young man. I look at it differently myself; yet I’ll be bound I have more cause for grumbling. What’s the trouble now?” “We-ell—you can’t lay your finger on a thing like that! What I mean to say—it’s nothing very definite. But, after all—what is there to do but to hop out of life as quickly as possible? That’s the best way.” Beatrice became suddenly grave. “You talk in that way, Mr. Allport,” she said. “You don’t think of the others.” “I don’t know,” he drawled. “What does it matter? Look here—who’d care? What I mean to say—for long?” “That’s all very easy, but it’s cowardly,” replied Beatrice gravely. “Nevertheless,” said Mr. Allport, “it’s true—isn’t it?” “It is not—and I _should_ know,” replied Beatrice, drawing a cloak of reserve ostentatiously over her face. Mr. Allport looked at her and waited. Beatrice relaxed toward the pessimistic young man. “Yes,” she said, “I call it very cowardly to want to get out of your difficulties in that way. Think what you inflict on other people. You men, you’re all selfish. The burden is always left for the women.” “Ah, but then,” said Mr. Allport very softly and sympathetically, looking at Beatrice’s black dress, “I’ve no one depending on _me_.” “No—you haven’t—but you’ve a mother and sister. The women always have to bear the brunt.” Mr. Allport looked at Beatrice, and found her very pathetic. “Yes, they do rather,” he replied sadly, tentatively waiting. “My husband—” began Beatrice. The young man waited. “My husband was one of your sort: he ran after trouble, and when he’d found it—he couldn’t carry it off—and left it—to me.” Mr. Allport looked at her very sympathetically. “You don’t mean it!” he exclaimed softly. “Surely he didn’t—?” Beatrice nodded, and turned aside her face. “Yes,” she said. “I know what it is to bear that kind of thing—and it’s no light thing, I can assure you.” There was a suspicion of tears in her voice. “And when was this, then—that he—?” asked Mr. Allport, almost with reverence. “Only last year,” replied Beatrice. Mr. Allport made a sound expressing astonishment and dismay. Little by little Beatrice told him so much: “Her husband had got entangled with another woman. She herself had put up with it for a long time. At last she had brought matters to a crisis, declaring what she should do. He had killed himself—hanged himself—and left her penniless. Her people, who were very wealthy, had done for her as much as she would allow them. She and Frank and Vera had done the rest. She did not mind for herself; it was for Frank and Vera, who should be now enjoying their careless youth, that her heart was heavy.” There was silence for a while. Mr. Allport murmured his sympathy, and sat overwhelmed with respect for this little woman who was unbroken by tragedy. The bell rang in the kitchen. Vera entered. “Oh, what a nice smell! Sitting in the dark, Mother?” “I was just trying to cheer up Mr. Allport; he is very despondent.”