sex are rather merciless. A tall, handsome girl, very dark, my
wife has characterized her as cold, calculating and ambitious. She
has said frequently, too, that Elinor Wells was a disappointed
woman, that her marriage, while giving her social identity, had
disappointed her in a monetary way. Whether that is true or not,
there was no doubt, by the time they had lived in our neighborhood
for a year, that a complication had arisen in the shape of another
man.

My wife, on my return from my office in the evening, had been quite
likely to greet me with:

"Horace, he has been there all afternoon. I really think something
should be done about it."

"Who has been where?" I would ask, I am afraid not too patiently.

"You know perfectly well. And I think you ought to tell him."

In spite of her vague pronouns, I understood, and in a more
masculine way I shared her sense of outrage. Our street has never
had a scandal on it, except the one when the Berringtons' music
teacher ran away with their coachman, in the days of carriages.
And I am glad to say that that is almost forgotten.

Nevertheless, we had realized for some time that the dreaded triangle
was threatening the repute of our quiet neighborhood, and as I stood
by the telephone that night I saw that it had come. More than that,
it seemed very probable that into this very triangle our peaceful
Neighborhood Club had been suddenly thrust.