There are high words within, and some unpleasant allusions to herself in distinctly masculine tones. Eleanor is heard crying, but her tears do not hasten a reconciliation. Giddy goes quietly back. "Bah!" she exclaims, stretching out her hands to the fire. "What rot! As if there was any harm!" She stirs up the blaze and laughs. "I shall breakfast in bed," she says to herself. * * * * * "He doesn't understand me. He wants me to be so good, so uninteresting, so _domesticated_! I believe he married me for that. Oh! oh! oh!" Mrs. Roche is wringing her hands and sobbing on the sofa. "Another quarrel?" sighs Giddy, stroking Eleanor's soft hair. "Come, come, this won't do. Pluck up your courage, go your own way, act as you like, and laugh at your husband. He _can't_ scold you if you laugh! Tears will only gratify his vanity, besides they are disastrous to beauty. Once your eyes become swollen, and your nose red, you can no longer hold your own. Your sense of superiority is gone, you are undone!" "How awful I look!" sighs Eleanor, rising and facing the glass. "I hope Sarah will say 'not at home' if anybody calls." "I am not going to let you stay in and mope, just because Mr. Roche happened to leave in a lecturing mood this morning. I have arranged a little tea in town at my club." "Your club? I did not know you had one." "Oh! yes, and I am on the committee. Nearly all the artists and literary women have their clubs nowadays, so I and some friends started one for people who do absolutely nothing. It is very useful to members with jealous husbands. We call it the 'Butterflies' Club,' a land of cosy corners and rendezvous. You really will have to join it, Eleanor, if Philip goes on like this. I will put you up at our next meeting. It is rather an expensive luxury, ten guineas a year, and a Turkish bath attached." Giddy places her arm affectionately through Eleanor's and leads her to the door. "Come up and dress, dear; my carriage will be here in half an hour, and I don't intend going without you." Eleanor cheers up at the prospect. She is like an April day. Giddy fans her friend's flushed face, rubs some powder gently with her fingers round the swollen eyes, and showers eau-de-Cologne on the burning forehead. "Do not throw yourself into any more fevers," she says; "life is too short, and sorrow too long." Eleanor is soon attired in green velvet and fur, for Mrs. Mounteagle declares it is necessary to be smart at the Butterflies' Club. They drive away together in the widow's snug little brougham. Herbert Dallison is waiting outside the club door to receive them; he starts, colours, and stares at Eleanor as Giddy introduces him. "Say 'how do you do?' prettily," she cries in a bantering tone, "and don't gape like an overgrown school-boy, if you love me, Bertie!" Mr. Dallison holds out a limp hand in a grey glove, smiles feebly, and thinks of the "relics" and the cat!