ftening of the brain,
my boy, or something of the sort.'

William looked at me in questioning despair, and in that moment my
heart softened towards him. In a flash I understood. He had so often
heard me urge Henry to wear white spats and light-coloured gloves,
though all my coercion and entreaty had been in vain. William had
thought by donning these things--which on him would have a grotesque
effect--he would win my favour. Poor fellow! I was quite touched by
his devotion, his absolutely hopeless passion.

'These things wouldn't be in keeping with the rest of you,' I said
gently; 'they require to be accompanied by all the--er--appurtenances
of the smart man.'

'Is--is--a beard an appurtenance?' he asked in a hollow voice.

'Not an appurtenance, William--perhaps a detriment would be the better
word.'

He emitted a sound that was half a groan. 'I knew it,' he said.
'Well, what must be, must be, I suppose.'

'You're getting profound,' snorted Henry, who apparently objected to
William in his present mood; and he proceeded to distract his attention
by touching on a recent stirring debate in the House. William allowed
Henry to talk on unchecked--your man who indulges in argument abhors
that--and left unusually early for him.

'That fellow is undoubtedly going off his head,' commented Henry after
his departure. 'I wonder what's wrong with him.'

I smiled rather sadly, and mentally decided that I must cure William of
his infatuation for me without delay.

CHAPTER XIV

It is not easy to write--even on such a simple topic as 'How to Retain
a Husband's Love'--if your attention is being distracted by a
conscientious rendering of Czerny's 101 Exercises in an adjoining room.
I could get no further with my article than the opening lines (they
like an introductory couplet on the Woman's Page):--

It is the little rift within the lute
That by and by will make the music mute!

whereas The Kid, having disposed of all the major and minor scales and
a goodly slice of Czerny, had now started her 'piece,' 'The Blue Bells
of Scotland.' It was too much. I flung down my pencil and strode to
the door. 'Moira,' I shrieked, 'stop that practising instantly.'

'Yes, Mama, dear.'

'Don't you understand I'm writing and want to be quiet?'

'Yes, Mama, dear. May I go on when you've finished writing?'

'I suppose so; but when I've quite finished it will be about your
bedtime,' I said, trying not to feel exasperat