e other was usually
empty, but to-night it was occupied by Mrs. Curtenty, the jewel of the
casket. In the presence of her husband she always used a small
rocking-chair of ebonized cane.

To glance at this short, slight, yet plump little creature as she
reclined crosswise in the vast chair, leaving great spaces of the seat
unfilled, was to think rapturously to one's self: _This is a woman_. Her
fluffy head was such a dot against the back of the chair, the curve of
her chubby ringed hand above the head was so adorable, her black eyes
were so provocative, her slippered feet so wee--yes, and there was
something so mysteriously thrilling about the fall of her skirt that you
knew instantly her name was Clara, her temper both fiery and obstinate,
and her personality distracting. You knew that she was one of those
women of frail physique who can endure fatigues that would destroy a
camel; one of those daemonic women capable of doing without sleep for ten
nights in order to nurse you; capable of dying and seeing you die
rather than give way about the tint of a necktie; capable of laughter
and tears simultaneously; capable of never being in the wrong except for
the idle whim of so being. She had a big mouth and very wide nostrils,
and her years were thirty-five. It was no matter; it would have been no
matter had she been a hundred and thirty-five. In short....

Clara Curtenty wore tight-fitting black silk, with a long gold chain
that descended from her neck nearly to her waist, and was looped up in
the middle to an old-fashioned gold brooch. She was in mourning for a
distant relative. Black pre-eminently suited her. Consequently her
distant relatives died at frequent intervals.

The basalt clock on the mantelpiece trembled and burst into the song of
six. Clara Curtenty rose swiftly from the easy-chair, and took her seat
in front of the tea-tray. Almost at the same moment a neat
black-and-white parlourmaid brought in teapot, copper kettle, and a
silver-covered dish containing hot pikelets; then departed. Clara was
alone again; not the same Clara now, but a personage demure, prim,
precise, frightfully upright of back--a sort of impregnable
stronghold--without doubt a Deputy-Mayoress.

At five past six Josiah Curtenty entered the room, radiant from a hot
bath, and happy in dry clothes--a fine, if mature, figure of a man. His
presence filled the whole room.

'Well, my chuck!' he said, and kissed her on the cheek.

She gazed at