She exerted herself to heal his wounded susceptibilities. But her criticism had sunk deep. It was true. He was on the down grade, in every sphere. Hampered with debt, losing his hold on the sympathies of juries, his poetical vein worked out, he saw exaggerated ruin staring him in the face. He had sowed the wind, was about to reap the inevitable harvest. The high-spirited man, half ashamed of his life, often loses sense of proportion. A _Gewitter_--or concentration of bad weathers--as the Germans appropriately name a storm, had temporarily gathered about him, and he mistook it for the destroying whirlwind. Meanwhile Minna came to his chambers, wove her Morganesque spells about his senses, provoking, seductive, tempting, sympathetic, instinctively bringing him to the brink of the false depths in her nature, cunningly clinking her money-bags in his ear. One afternoon he met Gerard at the club in St. James’s Street, to which both belonged. They were to dine together, later, with some friends. The talk had turned to domestic affairs. Irene, not being able as yet to find a suitable home for her rescued waif, was keeping her in the house; in fact was growing attached to the child. “That’s the devil of it,” said Gerard, “when once Irene attaches herself to a thing, nothing can make her let go.” “Why should she?” asked Hugh, shortly. Gerard lay back in his chair and watched the blue wreaths rising from his pipe. Then he said, slowly: “There are occasions when it’s awkward. Sometimes I wish Irene were not so strenuous.” “Confound it, man!” cried Hugh. “How can you, of all men, disparage her?” Irene’s husband looked at him queerly out of the corner of his eye. “Irene didn’t quite step ready-made out of heaven. “It’s a precious good thing she didn’t. Otherwise she would not have looked upon you and me.” “You’re a poet, my friend, and I’m a philosopher.” “You’re a married man, I suppose you mean, and I am a damned fool. You ought to be separated from Irene for a year or two. Then you would appreciate her.” “There is no necessity, I assure you,” retorted Gerard, coolly. “And as for you’re being a damned fool--well, I have known you too long not to have my own ideas about it. Anyhow, you are growing gunpowdery--not yourself. What’s wrong?” “My liver’s out of order,” said Hugh. An acquaintance came up, and they discussed other matters. But it was only afterwards that Hugh recognised how near to a quarrel he had come with his best friend. A less equable temper than Gerard’s might have flared up in resentment at his angry speeches. As it was, Gerard seemed to forget the incident, but it aided Hugh to realise his own irritability.