“I don’t know, pa,” answered the boy. “I think she is up-stairs.”

Trescott went to the foot of the stairs and called, but there came no answer. Seeing that the door of the little drawing-room was open, he entered. The room was bathed in the half-light that came from the four dull panes of mica in the front of the great stove. As his eyes grew used to the shadows he saw his wife curled in an arm-chair. He went to her. “Why, Grace,” he said, “didn’t you hear me calling you?”

She made no answer, and as he bent over the chair he heard her trying to smother a sob in the cushion.

“Grace!” he cried. “You’re crying!”

She raised her face. “I’ve got a headache, a dreadful headache, Ned.”

“A headache?” he repeated, in surprise and incredulity.

He pulled a chair close to hers. Later, as he cast his eye over the zone of light shed by the dull red panes, he saw that a low table had been drawn close to the stove, and that it was burdened with many small cups and plates of uncut tea-cake. He remembered that the day was Wednesday, and that his wife received on Wednesdays.

“Who was here to-day, Gracie?” he asked.

From his shoulder there came a mumble, “Mrs. Twelve.”

“Was she—um,” he said. “Why—didn’t Anna Hagenthorpe come over?”

The mumble from his shoulder continued, “She wasn’t well enough.”

Glancing down at the cups, Trescott mechanically counted them. There were fifteen of them. “There, there,” he said. “Don’t cry, Grace. Don’t cry.”

The wind was whining round the house, and the snow beat aslant upon the windows. Sometimes the coal in the stove settled with a crumbling sound, and the four panes of mica flushed a sudden new crimson. As he sat holding her head on his shoulder, Trescott found himself occasionally trying to count the cups. There were fifteen of them.