and a faint feeling, only partially due to the lapse of time since
breakfast, manifested itself behind his waistcoat. He coughed--a matter-
of-fact cough--and, with an attempt to hum a tune, hung his hat on the
peg and entered the kitchen.

Mrs. Henshaw had just finished dinner. The neatly cleaned bone of a chop
was on a plate by her side; a small dish which had contained a rice-
pudding was empty; and the only food left on the table was a small rind
of cheese and a piece of stale bread. Mr. Henshaw's face fell, but he
drew his chair up to the table and waited.

His wife regarded him with a fixed and offensive stare. Her face was red
and her eyes were blazing. It was hard to ignore her gaze; harder still
to meet it. Mr. Henshaw, steering a middle course, allowed his eyes to
wander round the room and to dwell, for the fraction of a second, on her
angry face.

"You've had dinner early?" he said at last, in a trembling voice.

"Have I?" was the reply.

Mr. Henshaw sought for a comforting explanation. "Clock's fast," he
said, rising and adjusting it.

His wife rose almost at the same moment, and with slow deliberate
movements began to clear the table.

"What--what about dinner?" said Mr. Henshaw, still trying to control his
fears.