table, that I had quarreled with my husband!

"I am afraid you are not well," he said at last, noticing my food
untouched on my plate. "We should not have come, any of us."

"I am perfectly well," I replied feverishly. "I am never ill.
I--I ate a late luncheon."

He glanced at me keenly. "Don't let them stay and play bridge
tonight," he urged. "Miss Caruthers can be an excuse, can she
not? And you are really fagged. You look it."

"I think it is only ill humor," I said, looking directly at him.
"I am angry at myself. I have done something silly, and I hate to
be silly."

Max would have said "Impossible," or something else trite. The
Harbison man looked at me with interested, serious eyes.

"Is it too late to undo it?" he asked.

And then and there I determined that he should never know the
truth. He could go back to South America and build bridges and
make love to the Spanish girls (or are they Spanish down there?)
and think of me always as a married woman, married to a
dilettante artist, inclined to be stout--the artist, not I--and
with an Aunt Selina Caruthers who made buttons and believed in
the Cause. But never, NEVER should he think of me as a silly
little fool who pretended that she was the other man's wife and
had a lump in her throat because when a really nice man came