Her mother, without replying, went out to the kitchen. Vera followed her. Frank, left alone with his father, moved uneasily, and bent his thin shoulders lower over his book. Siegmund remained with his arms on his knees, looking into the grate. From the kitchen came the chinking of crockery, and soon the smell of coffee. All the time Vera was heard chatting with affected brightness to her mother, addressing her in fond tones, using all her wits to recall bright little incidents to retail to her. Beatrice answered rarely, and then with utmost brevity. Presently Vera came in with the tray. She put down a cup of coffee, a plate with boiled ham, pink and thin, such as is bought from a grocer, and some bread-and-butter. Then she sat down, noisily turning over the leaves of her magazine. Frank glanced at the table; it was laid solely for his father. He looked at the bread and the meat, but restrained himself, and went on reading, or pretended to do so. Beatrice came in with the small cruet; it was conspicuously bright. Everything was correct: knife and fork, spoon, cruet, all perfectly clean, the crockery fine, the bread and butter thin—in fact, it was just as it would have been for a perfect stranger. This scrupulous neatness, in a household so slovenly and easy-going, where it was an established tradition that something should be forgotten or wrong, impressed Siegmund. Beatrice put the serving knife and fork by the little dish of ham, saw that all was proper, then went and sat down. Her face showed no emotion; it was calm and proud. She began to sew. “What do you say, Mother?” said Vera, as if resuming a conversation. “Shall it be Hampton Court or Richmond on Sunday?” “I say, as I said before,” replied Beatrice: “I cannot afford to go out.” “But you must begin, my dear, and Sunday shall see the beginning. _Dîtes donc_!” “There are other things to think of,” said Beatrice. “Now, _maman, nous avons changé tout cela_! We are going out—a jolly little razzle!” Vera, who was rather handsome, lifted up her face and smiled at her mother gaily. “I am afraid there will be no _razzle_”—Beatrice accented the word, smiling slightly—“for me. You are slangy, Vera.” “_Un doux argot, ma mère_. You look tired.” Beatrice glanced at the clock. “I will go to bed when I have cleared the table,” she said. Siegmund winced. He was still sitting with his head bent down, looking in the grate. Vera went on to say something more. Presently Frank looked up at the table, and remarked in his grating voice: “There’s your supper, Father.” The women stopped and looked round at this. Siegmund bent his head lower. Vera resumed her talk. It died out, and there was silence. Siegmund was hungry.