"After all Frills it's good form to go" Gerald said idly. "Go on. Smart people go to show their clothes." "Well, we've shown ours." Harriett flew out of her chair and daintily kicked him. He grabbed and missed and sank back wailing, his face hidden in a cushion. Her dainty foot flew out once more and he smothered a shriek. "Shut up" said Harriett curling herself up in her chair. Gerald wailed on. "Do we smoke in here?" said Miriam, wanting the scene to drop or change while it was perfect. She would tell them now about her change of lodgings. "Yes" said Harriett absently with an eye on Gerald. "I've changed my diggings" began Miriam formally, fumbling for her packet of cigarettes. Harriett was hurling a cushion. Gerald crumpled into the depths of his chair and sobbed aloud, beating with his arms. "Stop it silly" piped Harriett blushing. "I've changed my diggings" repeated Miriam uncomfortably. Harriett's face flashed a response. Gerald's loud wailings were broken by beseeching cries. Real, absolutely real and satisfying. Miriam answered them from some far deep in herself as if they were her own cries. Harry was embarrassed. Her bright strength was answering. She was ashamed at being seen answering. Miriam got up conversationally and began looking about for matches in the soft curtained drawing-room light. There were swift movements and Harriett's voice busily chiding. When she turned Gerald was sitting on the floor at Harriett's knee beating it gently with his head. "Got a match, G?" she said seeing in imagination the flare of the match in the soft greenish glare of the room. There was bright light all round the house and a glare of brightness in the garden, beyond the curtains. "Rather," said Gerald, "dozens." He sat up and handed out a box. Leaning back against Harriett's knee he began intoning a little poem of appeal. There was a ring at the front door bell. Miriam got herself to the piano putting cigarettes and matches behind a vase on the mantelshelf. "That's old Tremayne" said Gerald cheerfully, shooting his linen and glancing in the strip of mirror in the overmantel. The door opened admitting the light from the hall. The curtains at the open French windows swayed forward flooding the room with the bright garden light. Into the brightness stepped Mr. Tremayne, grey-clad and with a pink rose in his buttonhole.