“No,” said Mrs. Heywood, “but all the same, dear, I wish you hadn’t burned the books.”
“I should like to burn the authors of ‘em,” said Herbert fiercely. “However, they’ll roast sooner or later, that’s a comfort.”
“You had better be careful, dear,” said Mrs. Heywood rather nervously. “Clare is in a rather dangerous frame of mind just now.”
“Clare will have to learn obedience to her husband’s wishes,” said Herbert. “I thought she had learned by this time. She’s been very quiet lately.”
“Too quiet, Herbert. It’s when we women are very quiet that we are most dangerous.” Herbert was beginning to feel alarmed. He did not like all these hints, all these vague and mysterious suggestions.
“Good Lord, mother, you give me the creeps. Why don’t you speak plainly?”
Mrs. Heywood was listening. She seemed to hear some sounds in the hall. Suddenly she retreated to her arm-chair and made a pretence of searching for her knitting.
“Hush!” she said. “Here she comes.”
As she spoke the words, the door opened slowly and Clare came in. She was a tall, elegant woman of about thirty, with a quiet manner and melancholy eyes in which there was a great wistfulness. She spoke rather wearily—
“Not gone yet, Herbert? You’ll be late for the club.”