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“In every novel there must be one outstanding character with which we always sympathise–with whomwe always sympathise–even though we recognise it–even when we are most aware of the human frailties–“

Every man his own hero, thought the wife grimly, forgetting that every woman is intensely her own heroine.

But what did startle her was a blue bird dashing about near the feet of the absorbed, shorthand-scribbling little secretary. At least it was a blue-tit, blue with grey and some yellow. But to the wife it seemed blue, that juicy spring day, in the translucent afternoon. The blue bird, fluttering round the pretty but rather commonlittle feet of the little secretary.

The blue bird! The blue bird of happiness! Well, I’m blest,–thought the wife. Well, I’m blest!

And as she was being blest, appeared another blue bird–that is, another blue-tit–and began to wrestle with the first blue-tit. A couple of blue birds of happiness, having a fight over it! Well, I’m blest!

She was more or less out of sight of the human preoccupied pair. But ‘he’ was disturbed by the fighting blue birds, whose little feathers began to float loose.

“Get out!” he said to them mildly, waving a dark-yellow handkerchief at them.”Fight your little fight, and settle your private affairs elsewhere, my dear little gentlemen.”

The little secretary looked up quickly, for she had already begun to write it down. He smiled at her his twisted whimsical smile.

“No, don’t take that down,” he said affectionately.”Did you see those two tits laying into one another?”

“No!” said the little secretary, gazing brightly round, her eyes half-blinded with work.

But she saw the queer, powerful, elegant, wolf-like figure of the wife, behind her, and terror came into her eyes.

“I did!” said the wife, stepping forward with those curious, shapely, she-wolf legs of hers, under the very short skirt.

“Aren’t they extraordinarily vicious little beasts?” said he.

“Extraordinarily!” she re-echoed, stooping and picking up a little breast-feather.”Extraordinarily! See how the feathers fly!”

And she got the feather on the tip of her finger, and looked at it. Then she looked at the secretary, then she looked at him. She had a queer, were-wolf expression between her brows.

“I think,” he began, “these are the loveliest afternoons, when there’s no direct sun, but all the sounds and the colours and the scents are sort of dissolved, don’t you know, in the air, and the whole thing is steeped, steeped in spring. It’s like being on the inside; you know how I mean, like being inside the egg and just ready to chip the shell.”

“Quite like that!” she assented, without conviction.

There was a little pause. The secretary said nothing. They were waiting for the wife to depart again.

“I suppose,” said the latter, “you’re awfully busy, as usual?”

“Just about the same,” he said, pursing his mouth deprecatingly.

Again the blank pause, in which he waited for her to go away again.

“I know I’m interrupting you,” she said.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I was just watching those two blue-tits.”

“Pair of little demons!” said the wife, blowing away the yellow feather from her finger-tip.

“Absolutely!” he said.

“Well, I’d better go, and let you get on with your work,” she said.

“No hurry!” he said, with benevolent nonchalance.”As a matter of fact, I don’t think it’s a great success, working out of doors.”

“What made you try it?” said the wife.”You know you never could do it.”

“Miss Wrexall suggested it might make a change. But I don’t think it altogether helps, do you, Miss Wrexall?”

“I’m sorry,” said the little secretary.

“Why should yoube sorry?” said the wife, looking down at her as a wolf might look down half-benignly at a little black-and-tan mongrel.”You only suggested it for his good, I’m sure!”