"Tell me what you said to him."

"I swore at him for ten minutes. He didn't know if he stood on his head or
his heels when I'd done with him. Then I came away."

"I don't think that _swearing_ would improve matters."

"Perhaps you'll tell me what would improve them? It's what I want to hear,
and more than I know."

"Poor Bessie! Oh, poor, poor Bessie!"

"Ah!" poor Bessie's father said, and his short-necked head fell upon his
breast, and he gazed drearily at the fire again.

Mrs. Day got up and stood, her white hand glittering with its rings laid
upon the black marble of the mantelpiece, thinking of Bessie.

"I would go to the club, William," presently she advised. "It can't make
matters any better to sit at home and mope over them."

"Didn't I tell you I wasn't going to the club? D'you think I'm like a
woman, and don't know my own mind?"

"I thought it would be pleasanter for you," she said; and then she left
him. Her mind was full of Bessie, and the blow which must be given to
Bessie's hopes.

"I don't know how I shall ever find the heart to tell her," she said to
herself as she went from the room.