A Common Occurrence
BY NETTA SYRETT
IN the drawing-room at Marlborough Terrace there had been silence for more than the space of half an hour. Mrs. Wetherby sat at her Sheraton table, writing invitation cards, while her husband lay in his armchair with a book, which he presently dropped softly on to his knee. A sentence in the paragraph he had reached contained the words, "so not without a lingering glance, he went hack again to the beaten track and to the fleshpots of Egypt," and afterwards he did not turn the page.
For some minutes he sat gazing into the fire, and then raising his head, glanced round the room. Everything that he looked upon was desirable and pleasant to the sight; his eyes rested last upon his wife, and he mentally included her in the category of effects, as not the least valuable item, for Mrs. Wetherby dressed well and had a very pleasing back.
A moment later she rose rather suddenly and took the seat opposite to him.
"What amuses you?" she asked, somewhat sharply, meeting his look.
"I was thinking that flesh-pot is an exceedingly ugly word for the charming things it sometimes represents," he replied, in a lazy voice, still smiling.
"I have asked Avice Seagrave for the 18th," Mrs. Wetherby continued, conversationally, her tone suggesting that the action had been commendable, and that some remark expressive of approval would not be inappropriate. "But perhaps I'd better not send the invitation. I dare say she hasn't an evening dress," she added, after a scarcely perceptible pause. There was just the least shade of annoyance in her voice.
"She was at the Crossfields' the other evening," her husband observed.
"Was she? You never told me," said Mrs. Wetherby, with interest. "How ever did she get to know the Crossfields, I wonder! What was her dress like, Philip?"
"Why shouldn't she?" he asked, referring to Miss Seagrave's acquaintance with their friends.
"Well, she hasn't a penny, you know, and she lives by herself in miserable rooms, and—well—I don't see how she gets any opportunity to know people."
"How did you know her?"
His wife frowned a little impatiently.
"Oh, that year I took up art; we were both students at South Kensington. We used to have lunch together. She was a ladylike little thing—and I don't think it's nice to drop people."
Her husband again missed his opportunity.
"Ladylike scarcely describes Miss Seagrave, I think," he observed, reflectively.
"Really, Philip! Why, she is perfectly refined, and her father—"
"Oh yes! But so is the country clergyman's daughter who dispenses broth and flannel petticoats."
"I don't know what you're driving at, I'm sure," said Mrs. Wetherby, patiently. "Avice's father was in the army."
"I do not doubt it, dear," returned her husband, leaning forward to stir the fire.
"Well, then, what is your objection to Avice?"
"Objection?" He raised his eyebrows a little with a half-sigh. "My dear child, did I say anything about objections?"
"No; but when you say she isn't lady-like—"
Mr. Wetherby stirred a little, and his hand grasped the arm of the easy chair with a momentary firmness.
He turned to his wife a second later with a light laugh. "That frock of yours is quite a success, Gertrude," he said, approvingly. "It's a beautiful color."
"Do you like it?" She smoothed its folds dubiously, "Alphonsine's cut is good, certainly, but she is not very careful about the little things. You didn't tell me what Avice wore."
