In the beginning Mr. Birtwell had “pooh-poohed” at his wife’s infatuation, as he called it, and prophesied an early collapse of the whole affair.  “The best thing to do with a drunkard,” he would say, with mocking levity, “is to let him die.  The sooner he is out of the way, the better for himself and society.”  But of late he had given the matter a more respectful consideration.  Still, he would have his light word and pleasant banter both with his wife and Mr. Elliott, who often dropped in to discuss with Mrs. Birtwell the interests of the Home.

“Just in the nick of time,” exclaimed Mr. Birtwell, smiling, as he took the clergyman’s hand.

“My wife and I have had a disagreement—­we quarrel dreadfully, you know—­and you must decide between us.”

“Indeed!  What’s the trouble now?” said Mr. Elliott, looking from one to the other.

“Well, you see, we’ve been discussing the party question, and are at daggers’ points.”

The light which had spread over Mr. Elliott’s countenance faded off quickly, and Mr. Birtwell saw it assume a very grave aspect.  But he kept on: 

“You never heard anything so preposterous.  Mrs. Birtwell actually proposes that we give a coldwater-and-lemonade entertainment.  Ha! ha!”

The smile he had expected to provoke by this sally did not break into the clergyman’s face.

“But I say,” Mr. Birtwell added, “do the thing right, or don’t do it all.”

“What do you call right?” asked Mr. Elliott.

“The way it is done by other people—­as we did it last year, for instance.”

“I should be sorry to see last year’s entertainment repeated if like consequences must follow,” replied Mr. Elliott, becoming still more serious.

Mr. Birtwell showed considerable annoyance at:  this.

“I have just come from a visit to your friend Mrs. Voss,” said the clergyman.

“How is she?” Mrs. Birtwell asked, anxiously.

“I do not think she can last much longer,” was replied.

Tears came into Mrs. Birtwell’s eyes and fell over her cheeks.

“A few days at most—­a few hours, maybe—­and she will be at rest.  She spoke of you very tenderly, and I think would like to see you.”

“Then I will go to her immediately,” said Mrs. Birtwell, rising.  “You must excuse me, Mr. Elliott.  I will take the carriage and go alone,” she added, glancing toward her husband.

The two men on being left alone remained silent for a while.  Mr. Birtwell was first to speak.

“I have always felt badly,” he said, “about the death of Archie Voss.  No blame attaches to us of course, but it was unfortunate that he had been at our house.”

“Yes, very unfortunate,” responded the clergyman.  Something in his voice as well as in his manner awakened an uncomfortable feeling in the mind of Mr. Birtwell.

They were silent again, neither of them seeming at his ease.