The thought of Pauline made him glance at his clock: she would be coming in a moment. He unhooked the receiver again, and named, impatiently, the same number as before. "Out, you say? Still?" (The same stupid voice making the same stupid answer!) "Oh, no; no matter. I say _it's no matter_," he almost shouted, replacing the receiver. Of all idiotic servants--! Miss Vollard, the susceptible type-writer, shot a shingled head around the door, said "_All_ right" with an envious sigh to some one outside, and effaced herself before the brisk entrance of her employer's wife. Manford got to his feet. "Well, my dear--" He pushed an armchair near the fire, solicitous, still a little awed by her presence--the beautiful Mrs. Wyant who had deigned to marry him. Pauline, throwing back her furs, cast a quick house-keeping glance about her. The scent she used always reminded him of a superior disinfectant; and in another moment, he knew, she would find some pretext for assuring herself, by the application of a gloved finger-tip, that there was no dust on desk or mantelpiece. She had very nearly obliged him, when he moved into his new office, to have concave surbases, as in a hospital ward or a hygienic nursery. She had adopted with enthusiasm the idea of the concave tiling fitted to every cove and angle, so that there were no corners anywhere to catch the dust. People's lives ought to be like that: with no corners in them. She wanted to de-microbe life. But, in the case of his own office, Manford had resisted; and now, he understood, the fad had gone to the scrap-heap--with how many others! "Not too near the fire." Pauline pushed her armchair back and glanced up to see if the ceiling ventilators were working. "You _do_ renew the air at regular intervals? I'm sure everything depends on that; that and thought-direction. What the Mahatma calls mental deep-breathing." She smiled persuasively. "You look tired, Dexter ... tired and drawn." "Oh, rot!--A cigarette?" She shook her small resolute head. "You forget that he's cured me of that too--the Mahatma. Dexter," she exclaimed suddenly, "I'm sure it's this silly business of the Grant Lindons' that's worrying you. I want to talk to you about it--to clear it up with you. It's out of the question that you should be mixed up in it."