In the drawing-room of a flat in Intellectual Mansions, S. W., there was an air of quietude and peace. No one would have imagined for a moment that the atmosphere was charged with electricity, or that the scene was set for a drama of emotional interest with tragic potentialities. It seemed the dwelling-place of middle-class culture and well-to-do gentility.

The room was furnished in the “New Art” style, as seen in the showrooms of the great stores. There were sentimental pictures on the walls framed in dark oak. The sofa and chairs were covered in a rather flamboyant chintz. Through the French windows at the back could be seen the balcony railings, and, beyond, a bird’s-eye view of the park. A piano-organ in the street below was playing the latest ragtime melody, and there was the noise of a great number of whistles calling for taxis, which did not seem to come.

In a stiff-backed arm-chair by the fireplace sat an elderly lady, of a somewhat austere appearance, who was examining through her spectacles the cover of a paper backed novel, depicting a voluptuous young woman; obviously displeasing to her sense of propriety. Mrs. Heywood’s sense of propriety was somewhat acutely developed, to the annoyance, at times, of Mollie, the maid-servant, who was clearing away the tea-things in a bad temper. That is to say, she was making a great deal of unnecessary clatter.

Mrs. Heywood ignored the clatter, and concentrated her attention on the cover of the paper-backed book. It seemed to distress her, and presently she gave expression to her distress.

“Dear me! What an improper young woman!”

Mollie’s bad temper was revealed by a sudden tightening of the lips and a flushed face. She bent across an “occasional” table and peered over the old lady’s shoulder, and spoke rather impudently.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but that’s my novel, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind,” said Mrs. Heywood. “I was shocked to find it on the kitchen dresser.”

Molly tossed her head, so that her white cap assumed an acute angle.

“I was shocked to see that it had gone from the kitchen dresser.”

Then she lowered her voice and added in a tone of bitter grievance—

“Blessed if one can call anything one’s own in this here flat.”

“It’s not fit literature for any young girl,” said Mrs. Heywood severely. She looked again at the flaunting lady with an air of extreme disapproval.

“Disgusting!”

Mollie rattled the tea-things violently.

“It’s good enough for the mistress, anyhow.”

Mrs. Heywood was surprised.

“Surely she did not lend it to you?”

“Well—not exactly,” said Mollie, with just a trace of embarrassment. “I borrowed it. It’s written by her particular friend, Mr. Bradshaw.”

“Mr. Bradshaw! Surely not?”

The old lady wiped her spectacles rather nervously.

“A very nice-spoken gentleman,” said Mollie, “though he does write novels.”

Mrs. Heywood looked at the author’s name for the first time and expressed her astonishment.

“Good gracious! So it is.”

Mollie laughed as she folded up the tea-cloth. She had gained a little triumph, and scored off the “mother-in-law,” as she called the elderly lady, in the kitchen.

“Oh, he knows a thing or two, he does, my word!”

She winked solemnly at herself in the mirror over the mantelshelf.

“Hold your tongue, Mollie,” said Mrs. Heywood sharply.

“Servants are not supposed to have any tongues. Oh, dear no!”

With this sarcastic retort Mollie proceeded to put the sugar-basin into the china-cupboard, but seemed to expect a counter-attack. She was not disappointed.

“Mollie!” said Mrs. Heywood severely, looking over the rims of her spectacles.

“Now what’s wrong?”

“You have not cleaned the silver lately.”

“Haven’t I?” said Mollie sweetly.

“No,” said Mrs. Heywood. “Why not, I should like to know?”

Mollie’s “sweetness” was suddenly embittered. She spoke with ferocity.

“If you want to know, it’s because I won’t obey two mistresses at once. There’s no liberty for a mortal soul in this here flat. So there!”

“Very well, Mollie,” said Mrs. Heywood mildly. “We will wait until your mistress comes home. If she has any strength of mind at all she will give you a month’s notice.”

Mollie sniffed. The idea seemed to amuse her.

“The poor dear hasn’t any strength of mind.”

“I am surprised at you, Mollie.”

“That’s why she has gone to church again.”

Mrs. Heywood was startled. She was so startled that she forgot her anger with the maid.

“Again? Are you sure?”

“Well, she had a look of church in her eyes when she went out.”

“What sort of a look?” asked Mrs. Heywood.

“A stained-glass-window look.”

Mrs. Heywood spoke rather to herself than to Mollie.

“That makes the third time to-day,” she said pensively.

Mollie spoke mysteriously. She too had forgotten her anger and impudence. She dropped her voice to a confidential tone.

“The mistress is in a bad way, to my thinking. I’ve seen it coming on.”

“Seen what coming on?” asked the elderly lady.

“She sits brooding too much. Doesn’t even pitch into me when I break things. That’s a bad sign.”

“A bad sign?”

“I’ve noticed they’re all taken like this when they go wrong,” said the girl, speaking as one who had had a long experience of human nature in Intellectual Mansions, S. W. But these words aroused the old lady’s wrath.

“How dare you!” said Mrs. Heywood. “Leave the room at once.”

“I must tell the truth if I died for it,” said Mollie.

The two women were silent for a moment, for just then a voice outside called, “Clare! Clare!” rather impatiently.

“Oh, Lord!” said Mollie. “There’s the master.”

“Clare!” called the voice. “Oh, confound the thing!”

“I suppose he’s lost his stud again,” said Mollie. “He always does on club nights. I’d best be off.”

She took up the tea-tray and left the room hurriedly, just as her master came in. It was Mr. Herbert Heywood, generally described by his neighbors as being “Something in the City”—a man of about thirty, slight, clean-shaven, boyish, good-looking, with nervous movements and extreme irritability. He was in evening clothes with his tie undone.

“Plague take this tie!” he growled, making use of one or two un-Parliamentary expressions. Then he saw his mother and apologized.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, mother. Where’s Clare?”

Mrs. Heywood answered her son gloomily.

“I think she’s gone to church again.”

“Again?” said Herbert Heywood. “Why, dash it all—I beg your pardon, mother—she’s always going to church now. What’s the attraction?”

“I think she must be unwell,” said Mrs. Hey-wood. “I’ve thought so for some time.”

“Oh, nonsense! She’s perfectly fit.... See if you can tie this bow, mother.”

Mrs. Heywood endeavored to do so, and during the process her son showed great impatience and made irritable grimaces. But he returned to the subject of his wife.

“Perhaps her nerves are a bit wrong. Women are nervy creatures.... Oh, hang it all, mother, don’t strangle me!... As I tell her, what’s the good of having a park at your front door—Oh, thanks, that’s better.”

He looked at himself in the glass, and dabbed his face with a handkerchief.

“Of course I cut myself to-night. I always do when I go to the club.”

“Herbert, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood rather nervously.

“I—I suppose Clare is not going to bless you with a child?”

“In this flat!”

Herbert was startled and horrified. It was a great shock to him. He gazed round the little drawing-room rather wildly.

“Oh, Lord!” he said presently, when he had calmed down a little. “Don’t suggest such a thing. Besides, she is not.”

“Well, I’m nervous about her,” said Mrs. Heywood.

“Oh, rats, mother! I mean, don’t be so fanciful.”

“I don’t like this sudden craving for religion, Herbert. It’s unhealthy.”

“Devilish unhealthy,” said Herbert.

He searched about vainly for his patent boots, which were in an obvious position. It added to his annoyance and irritability.

“Why can’t she stay at home and look after me? I can’t find a single damn thing. I beg your pardon, mother.... Women’s place is in the home.... Now where on earth——”

He resumed his search for the very obvious patent boots and at last discovered them.

“Oh, there they are!”

He glanced at the clock, and expressed the opinion that he would be late for the club if he did not “look sharp.” Then a little tragedy happened, and he gave a grunt of dismay when a bootlace broke.

“Oh, my hat! Why doesn’t Clare look after my things properly?”

Mrs. Heywood asked another question, ignoring the broken bootlace.

“Need you go to the club to-night, Herbert?”

Herbert was both astonished and annoyed at this remark.

“Of course I must. It’s Friday night and the one little bit of Bohemianism I get in the week. Why not?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Heywood meekly. “Except that I thought Clare is feeling rather lonely.”

“Lonely?” said Herbert. “She has you, hasn’t she?”

“Yes, she has me.”

Mrs. Heywood spoke as though that might be a doubtful consolation.

“Besides, what more does she want? She has her afternoon At Homes, hasn’t she?”

“Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood, still more doubtfully.

“And she can always go to a matinÉe if she wants to, can’t she?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Then I have taken out a subscription to Mudie’s for her, haven’t I?”

Herbert Heywood spoke as though his wife had all the blessings of life, as though he had provided her with all that a woman’s heart might desire. But Mrs. Heywood interrupted his catalogue of good things.

“I think she reads too many novels,” she said.

“Oh, they broaden her mind,” said Herbert. “Although, I must confess they bore me to death.... Now what have I done with my cigarette-case?”

He felt all over his pockets, but could not find the desired thing.

“Oh, the curse of pockets!”

“Some of them are very dangerous, Herbert.”

“What, pockets?”

“No, novels,” said Mrs. Heywood. “Look at this.”

She thrust under his eyes the novel with the picture of the flaming lady.

“Gee whizz!” said Herbert, laughing. “Oh, well, she’s a married woman.”

“Do you see who the author is, Herbert?” Herbert look, and was astonished.

“Gerald Bradshaw, by Jove! Does he write this sort of muck?”

“He has been coming here rather often lately. Especially on club-nights, Herbert.” Herbert Heywood showed distinct signs of annoyance.

“Does he, by Jove? I don’t like the fellow. He’s a particularly fine specimen of a bad hat.”

“I’m afraid he’s an immoral man,” said Mrs. Heywood.

Herbert shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, Clare can take care of herself.”

“I wonder,” said Mrs. Heywood, as though she were not at all sure. “My dear, I think you ought to keep an eye on your wife just now.”

Herbert Heywood took his eye-glass out of a fob pocket and fumbled with it.

“Keep an eye on her, mother?”

“She is very queer,” said Mrs. Heywood. “I can’t do anything to please her.”

“Well, there’s nothing strange in that,” said Herbert. Then he added hastily—

“I mean it’s no new symptom.”

Mrs. Heywood stared at her son in a peculiar, significant way.

“She looks as if something is going to—happen.”

Herbert was really startled.

“Happen? How? When?”

“I can’t exactly explain. She appears to be waiting for something—or some one.”

Herbert was completely mystified.

“I didn’t keep her waiting this evening, did I?”

“I don’t mean you, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood.

“No?—Who, then?” asked Herbert.

Mrs. Heywood replied somewhat enigmatically. She gave a deep sigh and said—

“We women are queer things!”

“Queer isn’t the word,” said Herbert.

He stared at the carpet in a gloomy, thoughtful way, as though the pattern were perplexing him.

“Perhaps you’re right about the novels. They’ve been giving her notions, or something.”

Mrs. Heywood crossed the room hurriedly and went over to a drawer in a cabinet, from which she pulled out a number of pamphlets.

“Herbert,” she said solemnly, “she doesn’t read only novels. Look here. Look at all these little books. She simply devours them, Herbert, and then hides them.”

“Naturally, after she has devoured them,” said Herbert irritably. “But what the deuce are they?”

He turned them over one by one, reading out the titles, raising his eyebrows, and then whistling with surprise, and finally looking quite panic-stricken.

“Women’s Work and Wages. Oh, Lord! John Stuart Mill on The Subjection of Women. The Ethics of Ibsen. Great Scott! The Principles of Eugenics.... My hat!”

“Quite so, Herbert,” said Mrs. Heywood, with a kind of grim satisfaction in his consternation.

“I don’t mind her reading improper novels,” said Herbert, “but I draw the line at this sort of stuff.”

“It’s most dangerous.”

“It’s rank poison.”

“That’s what I think,” said Mrs. Heywood.

“Where did she get hold of them?” asked Herbert.

Mrs. Heywood looked at her son as though she had another startling announcement.

“From that woman, Miss Vernon, the artist girl who lives in the flat above.”

“What, that girl who throws orange-peel over the balcony?”

“Yes, the girl who is always whistling for taxis,” said Mrs. Heywood.

“What, you mean the one who complained about my singing in the bath?”

“Yes, I shall never forgive her for that.”

“Said she didn’t mind if I sang in tune.”

“Yes, the one who sells a Suffragette paper outside Victoria Station.”

“It’s the sort of thing she would do,” said Herbert, with great sarcasm.

“I never liked her, my dear,” said Mrs. Heywood.

“Confound her impudence! As if a British subject hasn’t an inalienable right to sing in his bath! She had the cheek to say I was spoiling her temper for the rest of the day.”

Mrs. Heywood laughed rather bitterly. “She looks as if she had a temper!”

Herbert gave the pamphlets an angry slap with the back of his hand and let them fall on the floor.

“Do you mean to say she has been giving Clare these pestilential things?”

“I saw her bring them here,” said Mrs. Hey-wood.

“Well, they shan’t stay here.”

Herbert went to the fireplace and took up the tongs. Then he picked up the pamphlets as though they might bite and tossed them into the flames.

“Beastly things! Burn, won’t you?”

He gave them a savage poke, deeper into the fire, and watched them smolder and then break into flame.

“Pestilential nonsense!... That’s a good deed done, anyhow!”

Mrs. Heywood was rather scared.

“I am afraid Clare will be very angry.”

“Angry! I shall give her a piece of my mind. She had no right to conceal these things.” He spoke with dignity. “It isn’t honorable.”

“No,” said Mrs. Heywood, “but all the same, dear, I wish you hadn’t burned the books.”

“I should like to burn the authors of ‘em,” said Herbert fiercely. “However, they’ll roast sooner or later, that’s a comfort.”

“You had better be careful, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood rather nervously. “Clare is in a rather dangerous frame of mind just now.”

“Clare will have to learn obedience to her husband’s wishes,” said Herbert. “I thought she had learned by this time. She’s been very quiet lately.”

“Too quiet, Herbert. It’s when we women are very quiet that we are most dangerous.” Herbert was beginning to feel alarmed. He did not like all these hints, all these vague and mysterious suggestions.

“Good Lord, mother, you give me the creeps. Why don’t you speak plainly?”

Mrs. Heywood was listening. She seemed to hear some sounds in the hall. Suddenly she retreated to her arm-chair and made a pretence of searching for her knitting.

“Hush!” she said. “Here she comes.”

As she spoke the words, the door opened slowly and Clare came in. She was a tall, elegant woman of about thirty, with a quiet manner and melancholy eyes in which there was a great wistfulness. She spoke rather wearily—

“Not gone yet, Herbert? You’ll be late for the club.”

Herbert looked at his wife curiously, as though trying to discover some of those symptoms to which his mother had alluded.

“I’m afraid that’s your fault,” he said.

“My fault?”

“Surely you ought to stay at home sometimes and help me to get off decently,” said Herbert in an aggrieved way. “You know perfectly well my tie always goes wrong.”

Clare sighed; and then smiled rather miserably.

“Why can’t men learn to do their own ties? We’re living in the twentieth century, aren’t we?”

She took off her hat, and sat down with it in her lap.

“Oh, how my head aches to-night.”

“Where have you been?” asked Herbert

“Yes, dear, where have you been?” asked Mrs. Heywood.

“I’ve been round to church for a few minutes,” said Clare.

“What on earth for?” asked Herbert impatiently.

“What does one go to church for?”

“God knows!” said Herbert bitterly.

“Precisely. Have you any objection?”

“Yes, I have.”

Herbert spoke with some severity, as though he had many objections.

“I don’t object to you going to your club,” said Clare.

“Oh, that’s different.”

“In what way?” asked Clare.

“In every way. I am a man, and you’re a woman.”

Clare Heywood thought this answer out. She seemed to find something in the argument.

“Yes,” she said, “it does make a lot of difference.”

“I object strongly to this religious craze of yours,” said Herbert, trying to be calm and reasonable. “It’s unnatural. It’s—it’s devilish absurd.”

“It may keep me from—from doing other things,” said Clare.

She spoke as though the words had some tragic significance.

“Why can’t you stay at home and read a decent novel?”

“It is so difficult to find a decent novel. And I am sick of them all.”

“Well, play the piano, then,” said Herbert.

“I am tired of playing the piano, especially when there is no one to listen.”

“There’s mother,” said Herbert.

“Mother has no ear for music.”

Mrs. Heywood was annoyed at this remark. It seemed to her unjust.

“How can you say so, Clare? You know I love Mozart.”

“I haven’t played Mozart for years,” said Clare, laughing a little. “You are thinking of Mendelssohn.”

“Well, it’s all the same,” said Mrs. Heywood.

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Clare very wearily. She drooped her head and shut her eyes until suddenly she seemed to smell something.

“Is there anything burning?”

“Burning?” said Herbert nervously.

“There is a queer smell in the flat,” said Clare.

Herbert stood with his back to the fire, and sniffed strenuously. “I can’t smell anything.”

“It’s your fancy, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood.

“It’s the smell of burned paper,” said Clare quite positively.

“Do you think so?” said her mother-in-law.

“Burned paper?” said Herbert.

Clare became suspicious. She leaned forward in her chair and stared into the fireplace.

“What are all those ashes in the grate?” she said.

“Oh, yes,” said Herbert, as though he had suddenly remembered. “Of course I have been burning some papers.”

“What papers?” asked Clare.

“Oh, old things,” said Herbert rather hurriedly. “Well, I had better be off. Goodnight, mother.”

He kissed her affectionately and said:

“Don’t stay up late. I have taken the key, Clare.”

“I hope it will fit the lock when you come back,” said Clare.

She spoke the words very quietly, but for some reason they raised her husband’s ire.

“For heaven’s sake don’t try to be funny, Clare.”

“I wasn’t trying,” said Clare very calmly. For a moment Herbert hesitated. Then he came back to his wife and kissed her.

“I think we are both a bit irritable to-night, aren’t we?”

“Are we?” said Clare.

“Nerves,” said Herbert, “the curse of the age. Well, good-night.”

Just as he was going out, Mollie, the maidservant, came in and said:

“It’s Miss Vernon, ma’am.”

“Oh,” said Clare. She glanced at her husband for a moment and theft said:

“Well, bring her in, Mollie.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Mollie, going out of the room again.

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Herbert, in a sudden excitement. “It’s that woman who flings her beastly orange-peel into my window boxes. Clare, I strongly object——”

Clare answered him a little passionately: “Oh, I am tired of your objections.”

“She’s not a respectable character,” said Herbert.

“Hush, Herbert!” said Mrs. Heywood.

As she spoke the girl who had been called Madge Vernon entered the room.

She was a bright, cheery girl, dressed plainly in a tailor-made coat and skirt, with brown boots.

“I thought I would look in for half-an-hour,” she said very cheerfully to Clare. “If you are busy, send me packing, my dear.”

“I am never busy,” said Clare. “I have nothing in the world to do.”

“Oh, that’s rotten!” said Madge. “Can’t you invent something? How are you, Mrs. Heywood?”

She shook hands with the old lady, who answered her greeting with a rather grim “Good evening.”

“Herbert is going out to-night,” said Clare. “By the way, you don’t know my husband.”

Madge Vernon looked at Herbert Heywood very sweetly.

“I have heard him singing. How do you do?”

Herbert was not at all pleased with her sweetness.

“Excuse me, won’t you?” he said. “I am just off to my club.”

“Don’t you take your wife with you?” asked Miss Vernon.

“My wife! It’s a man’s club.”

“Oh, I see. Men only. Rather selfish, isn’t it?”

Herbert Heywood was frankly astonished.

“Selfish? Why selfish? Well, I won’t stop to argue the point. Good-night, Clare. Doubtless you will enjoy Miss Vernon’s remarkable and revolutionary ideas.”

“I am sure I shall,” said Clare.

Mrs. Heywood followed her son to the door.

“Be sure you put a muffler round your neck, dear.”

Herbert answered his mother in a low voice, looking fiercely at Madge Vernon.

“I should like to twist it round somebody else’s neck!”

“I will come and find it for you, dear.”

The two young women were left alone together, and Clare brought forward a chair.

“Sit down, won’t you? Here?”

A moment later the front door was heard to hang and at the sound of it Madge laughed a little.

“Funny things, husbands! I am sure I shouldn’t know what to do with one.”

Clare smiled wanly.

“One can’t do anything with them.”

“By the by,” said Madge, “I have brought a new pamphlet for you. The ‘Rights of Wives.’”

Clare took the small book nervously, as though it were a bomb which might go off at any moment.

“I have been reading those other pamphlets.”

“Pretty good, eh?” said Madge, laughing. “Eye-openers! What?”

“They alarm me a little,” said Clare. “Alarm you?” Madge Vernon was immensely amused. “Why, they don’t bite!”

“Yes, they do,” said Clare. “Here.” She put her hand to her head as if it had been wounded.

“You mean they give you furiously to think? Well, that’s good.”

“I’m not sure,” said Clare. “Since I began to think I have been very miserable.”

“Oh, that will soon wear off,” said Madge Vernon briskly. “You’ll get used to it.”

“It will always hurt,” said Clare.

Madge Vernon smiled at her.

“I made a habit of it.”

“It’s best not to think,” said Clare. “It’s best to go on being stupid and self-satisfied.”

Clare’s visitor was shocked.

“Oh, not self-satisfied! That is intellectual death.”

“There are other kinds of death,” said Clare. “Moral death.”

Madge Vernon raised her eyebrows.

“We must buck up and do things. That’s the law of life.”

“I have nothing to do,” said Clare, in a pitiful way.

“How strange! I have such a million things to do. My days aren’t long enough. I am always pottering about with one thing or another.”

“What kind of things?” asked Clare wistfully.

Madge Vernon gave her a cheerful little laugh.

“For one thing, it’s a great joke having to earn one’s own living. The excitement of never knowing whether one can afford the next day’s meal! The joy of painting pictures—which the Royal Academy will inevitably reject. The horrible delight of burning them when they are rejected.... Besides, I am a public character, I am.”

“Are you? How?” asked Clare.

“A most notorious woman. I’m on the local Board of Guardians and all sorts of funny old committees for looking after everything and everybody.”

“What do you do?”

Clare asked the question as though some deep mystery lay in the answer.

“Oh, I poke up the old stick-in-the-muds,” said Madge Vernon, “and stir up no end of jolly rows. I make them do things, too; and they hate it. Oh, how they hate it!”

“What things, Madge?”

“Why, attending to drains, and starving widows, and dead dogs, and imbecile children, and people ‘what won’t work,’ and people ‘what will’ but can’t.”

Clare laughed at this description and then became sad again.

“I envy you! I have nothing on earth to do, and my days are growing longer and longer, so that each one seems a year.”

“Haven’t you any housework to do?” asked Madge.

“Not since my husband could afford an extra servant.”

Miss Vernon made an impatient little gesture.

“Oh, those extra servants! They have ruined hundreds of happy homes.”

“Well, we have only got one now,” said Clare. “The other left last night, because she couldn’t get on with my mother-in-law.”

“They never can!” said Miss Vernon.

“Anyhow, Herbert doesn’t think it ladylike for me to do housework.”

Madge Vernon scoffed at the idea.

“Ladylike! Oh, this suburban snobbishness! How I hate the damn thing! Forgive my bad language, won’t you?”

“I like it,” said Clare.

Miss Vernon continued her cross-examination.

“Don’t you even make your own bed? It’s awfully healthy to turn a mattress and throw the pillows about.”

“Herbert objects to my making beds,” said Clare.

“Don’t you make the puddings or help in the washing up?”

“Herbert objects to my going into the kitchen,” said Clare.

“Don’t you ever break a few plates?”

Clare smiled at her queer question.

“No, why should I?”

“There’s nothing like breaking things to relieve one’s pent-up emotions,” said Miss Vernon, with an air of profound knowledge.

“The only thing I have broken lately is something—here,” said Clare, putting her hand to her heart.

Miss Vernon was scornful.

“Oh, rubbish! The heart is unbreakable, my dear. Now, heads are much easier to crack.”

“I think mine is getting cracked, too,” said Clare.

She put her hands to her head, as though it were grievously cracked.

Madge Vernon stared at her frankly and thoughtfully.

“Look here,” she said, after a little silence, “I tell you what you want. It’s a baby. Why don’t you have one?”

“Herbert can’t afford it,” said Clare. Madge Vernon raised her hands.

“Stuff and nonsense!” she said.

“Besides,” said Clare in a matter-of-fact way, “they don’t make flats big enough for babies in Intellectual Mansions.”

Madge Vernon looked round the room, and frowned angrily.

“No, that’s true. There’s no place to keep a perambulator. Oh, these jerry builders! Immoral devils!”

There was a silence between the two women. Both of them seemed deep in thought.

Then presently Clare said: “I feel as if something were going to happen; as if something must happen or break.”

“About time, my dear,” said Madge. “How long have you been married?”

“Eight years,” said Clare, in a casual way. Madge Vernon whistled with a long-drawn note of ominous meaning.

“The Eighth Year, eh?”

“Yes, it’s our eighth year of marriage.”

“That’s bad,” said Madge. “The Eighth Year! You will have to be very careful, Clare.”

Clare was startled. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“Haven’t you heard?” said Miss Vernon.

“Heard what?”

“I thought everybody knew.”

“Knew what?” asked Clare anxiously.

Madge Vernon looked at her in a pitying way.

“It’s in the evidence on the Royal Commission on Divorce.”

“What is?”

“About the Eighth Year.”

“What about it?” asked Clare. She was beginning to feel annoyed. What was Madge hiding from her?

“Why,” said Madge, “about it being the fatal year in marriage.”

“The fatal year?”

The girl leaned forward in her chair and said in a solemn way:

“There are more divorces begun in the Eighth Year than in any other period.”

Clare Heywood was scared.

“Good gracious!” she said, in a kind of whisper.

“It’s a psychological fact,” said Madge. “I work it out in this way. In the first and second years a wife is absorbed in the experiment of marriage and in the sentimental phase of love. In the third and fourth years she begins to study her husband and to find him out. In the fifth and sixth years, having found him out completely, she makes a working compromise with life and tries to make the best of it. In the seventh and eighth years she begins to find out herself, and then——”

“And then?” asked Clare, very anxiously.

Clare Heywood was profoundly disturbed.

“Well, then,” said Madge, “there is the devil to pay!”

“Dear God!” she cried.

“You see, it’s like this. If a woman has no child she gets bored... . She can’t help getting bored, poor soul. Her husband is so devoted to her that he provides her with every opportunity for getting bored—extra servants, extra little luxuries, and what he calls a beautiful little home. Ugh!” She stared round the room and made a face.

“He is so intent on this that he nearly works himself to death. Comes home with business thoughts in his head. Doesn’t notice his wife’s wistful eyes, and probably dozes off to sleep after supper. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes,” said Clare. “Horribly so.”

“Well, then, having got bored, she gets emotional. Of course the husband doesn’t notice that either. He’s not emotional. He is only wondering how to make both ends meet. But when his wife begins to get emotional, when she feels that something has broken here” (she put her hand to her heart), “when she feels like crying at unexpected moments and laughing at the wrong time, why then——”

“What?” asked Clare.

“Why, then, it’s about time the husband began to notice things, or things will begin to happen to his wife which he won’t jolly well like. That’s all!”

Clare Heywood searched her friend’s face with hungry eyes.

“Why, what will his wife do?”

“Well, there are various alternatives. She either takes to religion——”

“Ah!” said Clare, flushing a little.

“Or to drink——”

“Oh, no!” said Clare, shuddering a little.

“Or to some other kind of man,” said Madge very calmly.

Clare Hey wood was agitated and alarmed.

“How do you know these things?” she asked.

“Oh, I’ve studied ‘em,” said Madge Vernon cheerfully. “Of course there’s always another alternative.”

“What’s that?” asked Clare eagerly.

“Work,” said Madge Vernon solemnly.

“What kind of work?”

“Oh, any kind, so long as it’s absorbing and satisfying. Personally I like breaking things. One must always begin by breaking before one begins building. But it’s very exciting.”

“It must be terribly exciting.”

“For instance,” said Madge, laughing quietly, “it’s good to hear a pane of glass go crack.”

“How does it make you feel?” asked Clare Heywood.

“Oh,” said Madge, “it gives one a jolly feeling down the spine. You should try it.”

“I daren’t,” said Clare.

“It would do you a lot of good. It would get rid of your megrims. Besides, it’s in a good cause.”

“I am not so sure of that,” said Clare.

“It’s in the cause of woman’s liberty. It’s in the cause of all these suburban wives imprisoned in these stuffy little homes. It lets in God’s fresh air.”

Clare rose and moved about the room. “It’s very stuffy in here,” she said. “It’s stifling.” At this moment Mollie came in the room again, and smiled across at her mistress, saying: “Mr. Bradshaw to see you, ma’am.”

Clare was obviously agitated. She showed signs of embarrassment, and her voice trembled when she said:

“Tell him—tell him I’m engaged.”

“He says he must see you—on business,” said Mollie, lingering at the door.

“On business?”

“That’s what my young man says when he whistles up the tube,” said Mollie.

Madge Vernon looked at her friend and said rather “meaningly”: “Don’t you want to see him? If so I shouldn’t if I were you.”

“Oh, yes,” said Clare, trying to appear quite cool. “If it’s on business.”

“Very well, ma’am,” said Mollie. As she left the room she said under her breath: “I thought you would.”

“Do you have business relations with Mr. Bradshaw?” asked Madge Vernon.

“Yes,” said Clare; “no.... In a sort of way.”

“I thought he was a novelist,” said Madge.

“So he is.”

“Dangerous fellows, novelists.”

“Hush!” said Clare. “He might hear you.”

“If it’s on business I must go, I suppose,” said Madge Vernon, rising from her chair.

“No, don’t go; stay!” said Clare, speaking with strange excitement.

As soon as she had uttered the words the visitor, Gerald Bradshaw, came in.

He was a handsome, “artistic” looking man, with longish brown hair and a vandyke beard. He was dressed in a brown suit, with a big brown silk tie. He came forward in a graceful way, perfectly at ease, and with a charming manner.

“How do you do, Mrs. Heywood?”

“I must be going,” said Madge. “Good-by, dear.”

“Oh, do stay,” whispered Clare.

“Impossible. I have to speak to-night.”

Although Madge Vernon had ignored the artist, he smiled at her and said:

“Don’t you speak by day as a rule?”

“Not until I am spoken to.... Good-night, Clare.”

“Well, if you must be going—” said Clare uneasily.

Madge Vernon stood for a moment at the door and smiled back at her friend. “You will remember, won’t you?”

“What?”

“The Eighth Year,” said Madge. With that parting shot she whisked out of the room.

Gerald Bradshaw breathed a sigh of relief. Then he went across to Clare and kissed her hands.

“I can’t stand that creature. A she-devil!”

“She is my friend,” said Clare.

“I am sorry to hear it,” said Gerald Bradshaw.

Clare Heywood drooped her eyelashes before his bold, smiling gaze.

“Why did you come again?” she asked. “I told you not to come.”

“That is why I came. May I smoke?”

He lit a cigarette before he had received he permission, and after a whiff or two said:

“Is the good man at the club?”

“You know he is at the club,” said Clare. “True. That is another reason why I came. Clare Heywood’s face flushed and her voice trembled a little.

“Gerald, if you had any respect for me——

“Respect is a foolish word,” said Gerald Bradshaw. “Hopelessly old-fashioned. Now adays men and women like or dislike, hate or love.”

“I think I hate you,” said Clare in a low voice.

Gerald smiled at her.

“No, you don’t. You are a little frightened of me. That is all.”

The woman laughed nervously, but there was a look of fear in her eyes.

“Why should I be frightened of you?”

“Because I tell you the truth. I don’t keep up the foolish old pretences by which men and women hide themselves from each other. You cannot hide from me, Clare.”

“You seem to strip my soul bare,” said Clare and when the man laughed at her she said: “Yes, I am frightened of you.”

“It is because you are like all suburban women,” said Gerald, “brought up in this environment of hypocritical virtue and false sentiment. You are frightened at the verities of life.”

Clare Heywood gave a deep, quivering sigh. “Life is a tragic thing, Gerald,” she said. “Life is a jolly thing if one makes the best of it, if one fulfils one’s own nature.”

“One’s own nature is generally bad.”

“Never mind,” said Gerald cheerfully. “It is one’s own. Bad or good, it must find expression instead of being smothered or strangled. Life is tragic only to those who are afraid of it. Don’t be afraid, Clare. Do the things you want to do.”

“There is nothing I want to do,” said Clare wearily. “Nothing except to find peace.”

“Exactly. Peace. How can you find peace, my poor Clare, in this stuffy life of yours—in this daily denial of your own nature? There are heaps of things you want.”

Clare laughed again, in a mirthless way. “How do you know?” she asked.

“Of course I know. Shall I tell you?”

“I think I would rather you didn’t,” said Clare.

“I will tell you,” said the man. “Liberty is one of them.”

“Liberty is a vague word.”

“Liberty for your soul,” said Gerald.

“Herbert objects to my having a soul.”

“Liberty for that beating heart of yours, Clare.”

The woman put both hands to her heart.

“Yes, it beats, and beats.”

“You want to escape, Clare.”

“Escape?”

She seemed frightened at that word. She whispered it.

“Escape from the deadening influence of domestic dulness.”

“I can’t deny the dulness,” said Clare.

“You want adventure. Your heart is seeking adventure. You know it. You know that I am telling you the truth.”

As the man spoke he came closer to her, and with his hands in his pockets stood in front of her, staring into her eyes.

“You make me afraid,” said Clare. All the color had faded out of her face and she was dead white.

“You need not be afraid, Clare. The love of a man for a woman is not a terrifying thing. It is a good thing. Good as life.”

He took her by the wrists and held them tight.

“Gerald!” said Clare. “For God’s sake.... I have a husband.”

“He bores you,” said the man. “He is your husband but not your mate. No woman finds peace until she finds her mate. It is the same with a man.”

“I will not listen to you. You make me feel a bad woman!”

She wrenched her hands free and moved toward the bell.

Gerald Bradshaw laughed quietly. He seemed amused at this woman’s fear. He seemed masterful, sure of his power over her.

“You know that you must be my mate. If not to-day, to-morrow. If not to-morrow, the next day. I will wait for you, Clare.”

Clare had shrunk back to the wall now, and touched the electric bell.

“You have no pity for me,” she said. “You play on my weakness.”

“Fear makes you strong to resist,” said the man. “But love is stronger than fear.”

He followed her across the room to where she stood crouching against the wall like a hunted thing.

“Don’t come so close to me,” she said.

“What on earth have you rung the bell for?” asked the man.

“Because I ought not to be alone with you.”

They stood looking into each other’s eyes. Then Clare moved quickly toward the sofa as Mollie came in.

“Oh, Mollie,” said Clare, trying to steady her voice, “ask Mrs. Heywood to come in, will you? Tell her Mr. Bradshaw is here.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Mollie. “But she knows that already.”

“Take my message, please,” said her mistress.

“I was going to, ma’am,” said Mollie, and she added in an undertone, as she left the room, “Strange as it may appear.”

Gerald laughed quite light-heartedly.

“Yes, you have won the trick this time. But I hold the trump cards, Clare; and I am very lucky, as a rule. I have a gambler’s luck. Of course if the old lady comes in I shan’t stay. She hates me like poison, and I can’t be polite to her. Insincerity is not one of my vices. Good-night, dear heart. I will come to you in your dreams.”

As he spoke this word, which brought a flush again to Clare Heywood’s face, Mrs. Hey-wood, her mother-in-law, came in. She glanced from one to the other suspiciously.

Gerald Bradshaw was not in the least abashed by her stern face.

“How do you do, Mrs. Heywood? I was just going. I hope I have not disturbed you?”

Mrs. Heywood answered him in a “distant” manner:

“Not in the least.”

“I am glad,” he said. “I will let myself out. Don’t trouble.”

At that moment there was a noise in the hall, and Clare raised her head and listened.

“I think I hear another visitor,” she said.

“In that ease I had better wait a moment,” said Gerald. “The halls of these flats are not cut out for two people at a time. I will light another cigarette if I may.”

“I thought I heard a latchkey,” said Mrs. Heywood. “Surely it can’t he Herbert back so early?”

“No, it can’t be,” said Clare.

Gerald spoke more to himself than to the ladies:

“I hope not.”

They were all silent when Herbert Heywood came in quietly.

“I didn’t go to the club after all,” he said. Then he saw Gerald Bradshaw, and his mouth hardened a little as he said, “Oh!... How do?”

“How are you?” asked Gerald, in his cool way.

“Been here long?” asked Herbert.

“Long enough for a pleasant talk with your wife.”

“Going now?”

“Yes. We have finished our chat. Goodnight. I can find my way out blindfolded. All these flats are the same. Rather convenient, don’t you think?”

He turned to Clare and smiled.

“Au revoir, Mrs. Heywood.”

She did not answer him, and he went out jauntily. A few moments later they heard the front door shut.

“What the devil does he come here for?” growled Herbert rather sulkily.

Clare ignored the question.

“Why are you home so early?”

“Yes, dear, why didn’t you go to the club?” asked Mrs. Heywood.

Herbert looked rather embarrassed.

“Oh, I don’t know. I felt a bit off. Besides——”

“What, dear?” asked his mother.

“I thought Clare was feeling a bit lonely to-night. Perhaps I was mistaken.”

“I am often lonely,” said Clare. “Even when you are at home.”

“Aren’t you glad I have come back?” asked Herbert.

“Why do you ask me?”

“I should be glad if you were glad.” Clare’s husband became slightly sentimental as he looked at her.

“I have been thinking it is rather rotten to go off to the club and leave you here alone,” he said.

Mrs. Heywood was delighted with these words.

“Oh, you dear boy! How unselfish of you!”

“I try to be,” said Herbert.

“I am sure you are the very soul of unselfishness, Herbert, dear,” said the fond mother.

“Thanks, mother.”

He looked rather anxiously at Clare, and said—

“Don’t you think we might have a pleasant evening for once?”

“Oh, that would be delightful!” said Mrs. Heywood.

“Eh, Clare?”

“How do you mean?” said Clare.

“Like we used to in the old days? Some music, and that sort of thing.”

“I am sure that will be very nice,” said Mrs. Heywood.

“Eh, Clare?” said Herbert.

“If you like,” said Clare.

“Wait till I have got my boots off.” He spoke in a rather honeyed voice to his wife.

“Do you happen to know where my slippers are, darling?”

“I haven’t the least idea,” said Clare.

Herbert seemed nettled at this answer.

“In the old days you used to warm them for me,” he said.

“Did I?” said Clare. “I have forgotten. It was a long time ago.”

“Eight years.”

At these words Clare looked over to her husband in a peculiar way.

“Yes,” she said. “It is our eighth year.”

“Here are your slippers, dear,” said Mrs. Hey wood.

“Oh, thanks, mother. You don’t forget.”

There was silence while he took off his boots. Clare sat with her hands in her lap, staring at the carpet. Once or twice her mother-in-law glanced at her anxiously.

“Won’t you play something, Clare?” said the old lady, after a little while.

“If you like,” said Clare.

Herbert resumed his cheerful note.

“Yes, let’s have a jolly evening. Perhaps I will sing a song presently.”

“Oh, do, dear!” said Mrs. Heywood.

“Gad, it’s a long time since I sang ‘John Peel’!”

Clare looked rather anxious and perturbed.

“The walls of this flat are rather thin,” she said. “The neighbors might not like it.”

“Oh, confound the neighbors!” said Herbert.

“I will do some knitting while you two dears play and sing,” said the old lady.

She fetched her knitting from a black silk bag on one of the little tables, and took a chair near the fireplace. Clare Heywood went to the music-stool and turned over some music listlessly. She did not seem to find anything which appealed to her.

Her husband settled himself down in an arm-chair and loaded his pipe.

“Play something bright, Clare,” he said.

“All my music sounds melancholy when I play it,” said Clare.

“What, rag-time?”

“Even rag-time. Rag-time worst of all.”

Yet she began to play softly one of Chopin’s preludes, in a dreamy way.

“Tell me when you want me to sing,” said Herbert.

“I will,” said Clare.

There was silence for a little while, except for Clare’s dream-music. Mrs. Heywood dozed over her knitting, and her head nodded on her chest. Presently Herbert rose from his chair and touched the electric bell. A moment later Mollie came in.

“Yes?” asked Mollie.

Herbert spoke quietly so that he should not interrupt his wife’s music.

“Bring me The Financial Times, Mollie. It’s in my study.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mollie.

She brought the paper and left the room again. There was another silence, except for the soft notes of the music. Herbert turned over the pages of The Financial Times, and yawned a little, and then let the paper drop. His head nodded and then lolled sideways. In a little while he was as fast asleep as his mother, and snored, quietly at first, then quite loudly.

Clare stopped playing, and looked over the music-rest with a strange, tragic smile at her husband and her mother-in-law. She rose from the piano-stool, and put her hands to her head, and then at her throat, breathing quickly and jerkily, as though she were being stifled.

“A jolly evening!” she exclaimed in a whisper. “Oh, God!”

She stared round the room, with rather wild eyes.

“It is stuffy here. It is stifling.”

She moved toward the piano again, with her hands pressed against her bosom.

“I feel that something must happen. Something must break.”

She took up a large china vase from the piano, moved slowly toward the window, hesitated for a moment, looked round at her sleeping husband, and then hurled the vase straight through the window. It made an appalling noise of breaking glass.

Herbert Heywood jumped up from his seat as though he had been shot.

“Good God!” he said. “What the devil!——”

Mrs. Heywood was equally startled. She sat up in her chair as though an earthquake had shaken the house.

“Good gracious! Whatever in the world——-”

At the same moment Mollie opened the door.

“Good ‘eavins, ma’am!” she cried. “Whatever ‘as ‘appened?”

Clare Heywood answered very quietly:

“I think something must have broken,” she said.

Then she gave a queer, strident laugh.