every evening of their married
life.

"What have you been doing today?" Clowes asked, sipping his tea
and looking out of the window. He had shut himself up in his
bedroom with a headache and his wife had not seen him since the
night before.

"This morning I motored into Amesbury to change the library
books and to enquire after Canon Bodington. I saw Mrs. Bodington
and Phoebe and George--,"

"Who's George?"

"Their son in the Navy, don't you remember? The Sapphire is in
dry dock--"

"How old is he?"

"Nineteen," said Mrs. Clowes.

"Oh. Go on."

"I don't remember doing anything else except get some stamps at
the post office. Stay, now I come to think of it, I met Mr.
Maturin, but I didn't speak to him. He only took off his hat to
me, Bernard. He is seventy-four."

"Dull sort of morning you seem to have had," said Bernard Clowes.

"What did you do after lunch?"

"With a great want of intelligence, I strolled down to Wharton to
see Yvonne, but she was out. They had all gone over to the big
garden party at Temple Brading. I forgot about it--"

"Why weren't you asked?"

"I was asked but I didn't care to go. Now that I am no longer in
my first youth these expensive crushes cease to amuse me."
Bernard gave an incredulous sniff but said nothing. "On my way
home I looked in at the vicarage to settle the day for the school
treat. Isabel has made Jack Bendish promise to help with the
cricket, and she seems to be under the impression that Yvonne
will join in the games. I can hardly believe that anything will
induce Yvonne to play Nuts and May, but if it is to be done that
energetic child will do it. No, I didn't see Val or Mr.
Stafford. Val was over at Red Springs and Mr. Stafford was
preparing his sermon."

"Have you written any letters?"

"I wrote to father and sent him fifty pounds. It was out of my
own allowance. He seems even harder up than usual. I'm afraid
the latest system is not profitable."

"I should not think it would be, for Mr. Selincourt," replied
Bernard Clowes politely. "Monte Carlo never does pay unless one's
pretty sharp, and your father hasn't the brains of a flea. Was
that the only letter you wrote?"

"Yes--will you have some more bread and butter?"

"And what letters did you get?" Clowes pursued his leisured
catechism while he helped himself daintily to a fragile sandwich.
This was all part of the daily routine, and Laura, if she felt
any resentment, had long since