London brooded under a grey sky. There had been rain in thenight, and the trees were still dripping. Presently, however,there appeared in the laden haze a watery patch of blue: andthrough this crevice in the clouds the sun, diffidently at firstbut with gradually increasing confidence, peeped down on thefashionable and exclusive turf of Grosvenor Square. Stealingacross the square, its rays reached the massive stone walls ofDrexdale House, until recently the London residence of the earlof that name; then, passing through the window of thebreakfast-room, played lightly on the partially bald head of Mr.

　　Bingley Crocker, late of New York in the United States ofAmerica, as he bent over his morning paper. Mrs. Bingley Crocker,busy across the table reading her mail, the rays did not touch.

　　Had they done so, she would have rung for Bayliss, the butler, tocome and lower the shade, for she endured liberties neither fromMan nor from Nature.

　　Mr. Crocker was about fifty years of age, clean-shaven and of acomfortable stoutness. He was frowning as he read. His smooth,good-humoured face wore an expression which might have beendisgust, perplexity, or a blend of both. His wife, on the otherhand, was looking happy. She extracted the substance from hercorrespondence with swift glances of her compelling eyes, just asshe would have extracted guilty secrets from Bingley, if he hadhad any. This was a woman who, like her sister Nesta, had beenable all her life to accomplish more with a glance than otherwomen with recrimination and threat. It had been a popular beliefamong his friends that her late husband, the well-known Pittsburgmillionaire G. G. van Brunt, had been in the habit ofautomatically confessing all if he merely caught the eye of herphotograph on his dressing table.

　　From the growing pile of opened envelopes Mrs. Crocker looked up,a smile softening the firm line of her lips.

　　"A card from Lady Corstorphine, Bingley, for her at-home on thetwenty-ninth."Mr. Crocker, still absorbed, snorted absently.

　　"One of the most exclusive hostesses in England. . . . She hasinfluence with the right sort of people. Her brother, the Duke ofDevizes, is the Premier's oldest friend.""Uh?""The Duchess of Axminster has written to ask me to look after astall at her bazaar for the Indigent Daughters of the Clergy.""Huh?""Bingley! You aren't listening. What is that you are reading?"Mr. Crocker tore himself from the paper.

　　"This? Oh, I was looking at a report of that cricket game youmade me go and see yesterday.""Oh? I am glad you have begun to take an interest in cricket. Itis simply a social necessity in England. Why you ever made such afuss about taking it up, I can't think. You used to be so fond ofwatching baseball and cricket is just the same thing."A close observer would have marked a deepening of the look ofpain on Mr. Crocker's face. Women say this sort of thingcarelessly, with no wish to wound: but that makes it none theless hard to bear.