Then Mrs. Minks knew for a certainty that something had happened.

He had not even asked after the children.

‘Herbert,’ she said, with a growing excitement, ‘why are you so

full of poetry to-night? And what’s this about success and poison all

of a sudden?’ She knew he never drank. ‘I believe Mr. Rogers has

raised your salary, or done one of those fine things you always say

he’s going to do. Tell me, dear, please tell me.’ There were new,

unpaid bills in her pocket, and she almost felt tempted to show them.

She poked the fire fussily.

‘Albinia,’ he answered importantly, with an expression that brought

the chin up closer to the lips, and made the eyebrows almost stern,

‘Mr. Rogers will do the right thing always—when the right time comes.

As a matter of fact’—here he reverted to the former train of thought

—’both he and I are misfits in a practical, sordid age. We should

have been born in Greece—-‘

‘I simply love your poems, Herbert,’ she interrupted gently,

wondering how she managed to conceal her growing impatience so well,

‘but there’s not the money in them that there ought to be, and they

don’t pay for coals or for Ronald’s flannels—-‘

‘Albinia,’ he put in softly, ‘they relieve the heart, and so make

me a happier and a better man. But—I should say he would,’ he added,

answering her distant question about the salary.

The secret was almost out. It hung on the edge of his lips. A

moment longer he hugged it deliciously. He loved these little

conversations with his wife. Never a shade of asperity entered into

them. And this one in particular afforded him a peculiar delight.

‘Both of us are made for higher things than mere money-making,’ he

went on, lighting his calabash pipe and puffing the smoke carefully

above her head from one corner of his mouth, ‘and that’s what first

attracted us to each other, as I have often mentioned to you. But

now’—his bursting heart breaking through all control—’that he has

sold his interests to a company and retired into private life—er—my

own existence should be easier and less exacting. I shall have less

routine, be more my own master, and also, I trust, find time perhaps

for—-‘

‘Then something has happened!’ cried Mrs. Minks, springing

to her feet.

‘It has, my dear,’ he answered with forced calmness, though his

voice was near the trembling point.

She stood in front of him, waiting. But he himself did not rise,

nor show more feeling than he could help. His poems were full of

scenes like this in which the men—strong, silent fellows—were fine

and quiet. Yet his instinct was to act quite otherwise. One eye

certainly betrayed it.

‘It has,’ he repeated, full of delicious emotion.