She told him how the great possibilities of the department she had established in the bank rested on the personal touch established between herself and the clients. The scheme was that those possibilities should be developed to their fullest extent. While she was in London that personal touch could be established with clients by dozens. If she visited the branches in the East, at Bombay, at Rangoon, at Singapore, it was by hundreds that the touch could be established. That was it. Field’s customers would talk to her, and when she was returned they would talk of her, and would tell others of her, as one met, not during the jolly freedom of leave when the impulse was to feel that, after all, nothing mattered much, but met out there when they were in the yoke and the harness of the thing,--met as one fresh out from home in their particular interests and shortly, charged with their special interests, returning home. That was it! A novel mission, a valuable mission, her mission. About a year. To start in about six weeks. “There, Harry, that’s the plan.” “And you are going?” “I have agreed to go.” He said slowly, “It astonishes me.” There was then a pause. She spoke. “I think I do not like your astonishment, Harry.” “It is justified.” “No, no; not justified. When you told me of a possibility of Singapore for you I was not astonished. I made no difficulty.” “Different,” he said. “Different.” “Not different, Harry. The same. How different? If you could go, I can go. The same. Aren’t things with us always the same?” He shook his head. “Not this. If I had to go--” “Yes, yes. It’s the point. If you had to go you’d have to go. Well, I have to go.” “Rosalie, if I had to go I could go. A man can.” She cried, “But, Harry, that--This isn’t us talking at all. You mean a man can leave his home because his home can go on without him. But our home--it’s just the same for me in our home. We’ve made it like that. It runs itself. The kitchen--I don’t know when I last gave an order. The children--there’s never a word. The thing’s organised. I’m an organiser.” She laughed, “Dear, that’s why they’re sending me. Isn’t it organised?” He assented, but with an inflexion on the word “It’s--organised.” She did not attend the inflexion. “Well, that’s no organisation that can’t, in necessity, run by itself. This can. You know, quite well, this will. You know, quite well, that you will not be put about a jot.” “Oh, I know that,” he said. “Well, then. Astonished--why astonished?” He looked at her. “Let’s call it,” he said, “the principle of the thing.” Oh, now astonishment between them. Her voice, astounded, had an echo’s sound--faint, faint, scarcely to be heard, gone. “The prin-ci-ple!” This room was lit, then, only by a standard lamp remote from where they were beside the fire. She was in a deep armchair; its partner, Harry’s chair, close by. He sat himself on the arm, looking towards her. The firelight made shadows on his face.