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household duties, and even she felt what a pity it was that she could not think very clearly. There was Will’s stiffness, now. He was so stiff that he could hardly walk that morning, and she had never known that since before they were married and he used to play football. But Will couldn’t have been playing football last night, could he now? It made her anxious. Then upstairs a new surprise awaited her. Will’s other suit, his old everyday one, lay in a tumbled heap on the bedroom floor. She picked it up and put it away. It was sopping wet, and it was thick with mud. That must be why he did not wear it in the morning. How could he have got it so wet and muddy? The idea of football came to her mind again, but of course that was silly. Will did not play football now, and if he did it wouldn’t be late at night and in his ordinary clothes. With a sigh she left the problem alone and went on tidying the room. Then there were Winnie’s and John’s bedrooms to be done, and after that a look round just to see that everything was in order. In the bathroom an old memory recurred to her. Will had come in here last night. Perhaps she could see what he came for? But she could see nothing different from usual as she looked round. The locked, glass-fronted cupboard in which Will kept his chemicals hung on the wall beside her. She peered in, as she had done hundreds of times before. The manifold bottles meant nothing to her; but she liked to look at the labels and wonder what they were all about. Some of the bottles were of a mysterious brown, and some were white. They were all very neatly arranged. Except one, and that was a little out of its place on the shelf. (As it might be if a man had put it back there in the dark.) Annie glanced casually at the label. It conveyed nothing to her at all, but it happened that the queer name stuck in her mind⁠—potassium cyanide. She turned away from the cupboard without further thought.

There was a pleasurable little excursion before her. She felt quite thrilled with imagining it as she put on her hat before her bedroom mirror. It was a long time since she had had a lot of money in her pocket as she had now. Not that it would stay there long, as she had to pay off Evans’ bill, but it made her feel very rich and great to go into Evans’ shop and ask, in quite a matter-of-fact way, for her bill, and then to open her bag and produce a roll of notes and hand over the amount as if she were accustomed to such transactions every minute of her life. That would be nice, and then she would go on to Richards’, and walk in there, and Mr. Richards would be so nice to her because she was a new customer, and she would order what she wanted, and he would say “Yes, madam,” and “No, madam,” as if her every word was law. She was glad that Jim had done something for Will. Otherwise she would not be having such a happy day. After all, by contrast with the ordinary day of a woman with a house to look after, it would be a happy day.

She was still feeling happy when Mr. Marble returned from the office in the evening, just after the children had had their tea and were settling down to their homework. He looked very tired, poor soul, and he still walked stiffly, but Mrs. Marble had a nice tea ready for him thanks to her visit to Mr. Richards’ shop. There were nice scrambled eggs, good eggs, not the other kind, and three pieces of toast, and there was fresh tea in the pot. Mrs. Marble was disappointed when he looked at the pleasant tea-table with evident distaste. He flung himself down in an armchair with a sigh.

“Anybody been?” he demanded.

“No, dear, no one,” replied Annie, surprised.

“Sure?”

“Of course I am, dear. Who is there to come? There was no one besides the milkman, and people selling things. It wasn’t Mr. Brown’s day for the insurance.”

“That’s all right then,” said Mr. Marble, and he began to unwrap the parcel he had brought in with him. The children looked up with interest, but they were disappointed. It was only a stupid old bottle of whisky. But Mr. Marble looked at it very eagerly.

“Aren’t you going to have your tea, dear?” asked Mrs. Marble.

Mr. Marble looked, hesitated, and looked again.

“Oh, all right, then,” he said grudgingly.

He sat down before his tray and began to eat while his wife began her delightful duty of looking after him, pouring out his tea, refilling the teapot from the kettle on the fire, and seeing that he was comfortable. But Mr. Marble had hardly begun when he rose from the table and hurried out of the room. Annie, hurt and mystified, heard him in the sitting-room next door⁠—for the second time that day, and yet perhaps the second time for months. Almost mechanically she followed him, to find him peering through the window in the half light out into the backyard, where there was a small rain falling. He started as he heard her behind him.

“What are you following me about for like this?” he snapped.

“Nothing dear. Is there anything you want, dear?”

“Nothing, dear. Anything you want, dear?” he gibed. “Only a wife with some sense. That’s all.”

He pushed past her without apology, back to the dining-room. She found him there seated at the table, but he had pushed his nice tray away, and was staring gloomily at the whisky bottle, which was perched, like some family god, in the exact centre of the table. He could not take his eyes off it. He did not look up