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in the drawing-room, Ernest Wadlow piloted his sister-in-law to a sofa at some little distance from the group round the fire. The last thing on earth that Rachel desired was a tête-à-tête with Ernest, but in the twenty-five years of his marriage to Mabel she had learned the impossibility of deterring him from anything upon which he had set his mind. She therefore resigned herself, and hoped that he would say what he wanted to say and get it over. This, however, was hoping against hope. Ernest sat down, straightened his pince-nez, and inquired whether she had been shopping.
    Rachel leaned back, said “No,” and awaited developments.
    “A very cold day for shopping,” said Mr. Wadlow.
    He was a small man and precise in his dress, but for some reason he always wore collars which appeared to be at least one size too large for him, and which afforded the public an uninterrupted view of an unusually large Adam’s apple. For the rest, he had the same near-set eyes as his son and daughter, but his hair and his small worried-looking moustache were quite dark.
    Rachel said, “But I wasn’t shopping.”
    Ernest Wadlow took off his pince-nez and began to polish the lenses.
    “Ah—business,” he remarked. “You have a great deal on your hands. But you mustn’t overdo it.” He replaced the pince-nez. “You really do look very tired.”
    Rachel smiled.
    “Thank you, Ernest. When a man says that to a woman, what he really means is that she is looking plain.”
    Mr. Wadlow appeared shocked.
    “My dear Rachel—what an idea! The fact is, Mabel is worried about you.”
    “She needn’t be.”
    “Ah, but she is. And it’s not at all good for her to be worried, as you know. Only this afternoon she had a really alarming attack of palpitations. She said then ‘Rachel is overdoing it. If she doesn’t take care of herself she will have a breakdown.’ I replied, ‘My dear, you know perfectly well and your sister Rachel knows perfectly well, that if she finds the burden of her business affairs too much for her, I shall be only too glad to give her any assistance in my power.’ ”
    “I am sure of it,” said Miss Treherne.
    Mr. Wadlow straightened his pince-nez. The Adam’s apple quivered.
    “ ‘But,’ I said, ‘I am not one to proffer assistance or—er—advice which might expose me to a rebuff.’ ”
    Rachel made a sudden movement.
    “And was Mabel having palpitations all the time you were saying this?”
    Ernest Wadlow stared without offence but with some slight surprise.
    “I was relating the conversation which led up to the palpitations.”
    Rachel smiled. She disliked her brother-in-law, but it was seventeen years since she had admitted as much to anyone.
    “My dear Ernest, all this is waste of time. I am tired tonight, but I am perfectly well. There is no need for Mabel to have palpitations on my account, and there is no need for you to offer me your very kind help with my business affairs. Now if that’s all you wanted to say to me—”
    She knew already that it was not. The purpose for which she had been isolated was still unfulfilled. From behind the glimmering, ever crooked pince-nez it maintained a steady pressure.
    “Do not go, Rachel. We are a good deal concerned—I think I may say that we are even alarmed about Maurice. He has informed his mother and myself that he intends to join the Communist party. I believe he wishes to go to Russia for a year.”
    “I should encourage that. It will probably cure him.”
    “Mabel is distracted at the idea. She has been told that the sanitary conditions are far from satisfactory, even in Moscow and Leningrad.”
    “I don’t see what I can do about it, Ernest.”
    Mr. Wadlow fidgetted. His Adam’s apple slid up and down.
    “If you were to see your way to assist the—er—scheme in which he was so desirous of joining—”
    “You mean that Share-and-Share-Alike Colony?”
    “Mabel thinks it would keep him in England.”
    What Miss Treherne would have