worthy, with a hint of tracts to come. Helena looked back
across the fireplace at her almost with a smile.

It was Ruth who spoke first. "Well," she said, "of course you know
I've been asked down to make peace."

It was so unexpected that Helena did actually smile. "To make me a
good girl," she emended.

"I'm afraid," laughed Ruth, "as usual with children, you are both to
blame."

It all seemed easy in a moment. Helena suddenly felt the thick clouds
of misery lift from her soul. She believed in Ruth. The whole air of
the little room appeared to change from stiff hostility to friendly
hope. Tea seemed a thousand years ago. She gave a cheery little laugh.

"Look here," said Ruth, encouraged, "I'm so glad you're taking it like
this; I hated coming down. I know how people feel about in-laws and I
thought you'd think I had come down to side with Hubert blindly. I've
not, a bit. I'm very fond of him, but I see all his faults. I only
want him to be happy. I'm forty, you know, and I've seen a good deal
of things, so possibly----" She broke off and said, by an abrupt
change; "You see, I lived with him for years and years so I can
understand. He's difficult, I know, when you're with him, but when you
get away--isn't he a dear?" She smiled.

"He's _more_ than that," said Helena, suddenly wanting to cry.

She had said it unthinking, moved by the other's appeal, but to Ruth it
was everything, for it meant that her task was easy. She embarked with
confidence.

"When I first lived with him," she began, "I met a lot of well-known
writers, artists, actors. He used to go out more then, and it
flattered him to meet men who were famous. Well, I came to the
conclusion that the greatest men are the most tragic, the most
pathetically childish. I suppose you _have_ to be self-centred to
succeed; and then somehow, they can't get used to the little things.
You know how press-notices upset poor Hubert? Well, they're all like
that about something or other. You see, you married a man of that sort
and you must make allowances."

"Oh, I do," said Helena, leaping at self-defence. "I always did. It's
_him_. He won't forgive me, won't believe I'm sorry, won't let me put
things right. You don't know what this week has been. I can't endure
it, really."

"And so," asked Ruth, "you mean to write another book?"

Helena for just one moment scented battle and replied more stiffly.
She would not throw her arms down till