at's what men like--that's the one
thing that they go out for and come in for--a smile."

"Your ideal of a woman seems to be a Cheshire cat," she answered,
looking rather amused. "Your motto is, like the man in _The Arcadians_:
Always Merry and Bright. Well, I'm sure there's a good deal in it. But
I'm not usually accused of being a dreary person."

"Of course you're not; you're charming, lively, amusing, sympathetic.
That's your great attraction, Val. But the last few days you seem rather
to have lost it."

"You can hardly resent my feeling a little down, Harry. One or two
little things that have happened lately have made me anxious."

"Never be anxious. You ought to trust, trust--always trust."

"Oh, that's all very well! That wire...."

"Are we going to have that all over again? I thought I'd explained." He
assumed the air of a patient martyr.

"I know you _explained_ all right. Well, I won't think about it any
more. Don't be horrid, Harry.... Have you seen this week's _Punch_?
There's something in it simply _too_ heavenly--such a joke! Let me read
it to you."

"It's very sweet of you--but do you ever realise----I wonder if it's
ever struck you, Val, that men aren't always in the mood for heavenly
jokes? There are times when one likes to think--to see life as it is--to
discuss abstract things, even."

"Oh! Well ... what do you think of Daphne's dress? Isn't it pretty? It
was made by Ogburn, all out of nothing, in no time."

He looked at Daphne, who was sitting under a tree reading Cyril's last
letter over again.

"It's all right. It suits _her_. I don't call _that_ a serious subject."

"What subject would you like, then?"

"Well--Romer, for instance. Where is he?"

"Talking to the gardener about mowing. Do you want him? I'll call him if
you like."

"Dear Val, it's not quite like you to be ironical to _me_.... You ought
not to laugh at Romer either. I'm complex, perhaps--I know I am; but it
jars on me when you do that."

She stared at him.

"Look here--I know I'm tiresome," said Harry, returning to his usual
caressing manner. "Don't take any notice of it. It's--the weather, I
think, or want of exercise. I'll go and improvise a little."

He pushed back his chair, and, with a parting look of forgiveness, he
went into the house and began to improvise (rather dismally) a
well-known funeral march. Or perhaps it was only a coincidence. Perhaps
he would have thought of it if Chopin hadn't.

Harry was