"I can't go," said Mrs. Bremmil, "it is too soon after poor little
Florrie . . . but it need not stop you, Tom."

She meant what she said then, and Bremmil said that he would go
just to put in an appearance. Here he spoke the thing which was
not; and Mrs. Bremmil knew it. She guessed--a woman's guess is
much more accurate than a man's certainty--that he had meant to go
from the first, and with Mrs. Hauksbee. She sat down to think, and
the outcome of her thoughts was that the memory of a dead child was
worth considerably less than the affections of a living husband.
She made her plan and staked her all upon it. In that hour she
discovered that she knew Tom Bremmil thoroughly, and this knowledge
she acted on.

"Tom," said she, "I shall be dining out at the Longmores' on the
evening of the 26th. You'd better dine at the club."

This saved Bremmil from making an excuse to get away and dine with
Mrs. Hauksbee, so he was grateful, and felt small and mean at the
same time--which was wholesome. Bremmil left the house at five for
a ride. About half-past five in the evening a large leather-
covered basket came in from Phelps' for Mrs. Bremmil. She was a
woman who knew how to dress; and she had not spent a week on
designing that dress and having it gored, and hemmed, and herring-
boned, and tucked and rucked (or whatever the terms are) for
nothing. It was a gorgeous dress--slight mourning. I can't
describe it, but it was what The Queen calls "a creation"--a thing
that hit you straight between the eyes and made you gasp. She had
not much heart for what she was going to do; but as she glanced at