remember, complained of headache, and one of the stenographers had
a fainting attack.

I have often wondered for how much of what happened to Arthur Wells
the day was responsible. There are days when the world is a place
for love and play and laughter. And then there are sinister days,
when the earth is a hideous place, when even the thought of
immortality is unbearable, and life itself a burden; when all that
is riotous and unlawful comes forth and bares itself to the light.

This was such a day.

I am fond of my friends, but I found no pleasure in the thought of
meeting them that evening. I remembered the odious squeak in the
wheels of Mrs. Dane's chair. I resented the way Sperry would clear
his throat. I read in the morning paper Herbert Robinson's review
of a book I had liked, and disagreed with him. Disagreed violently.
I wanted to call him on the telephone and tell him that he was a
fool. I felt old, although I am only fifty-three, old and bitter,
and tired.

With the fall of twilight, things changed somewhat. I was more
passive. Wretchedness encompassed me, but I was not wretched. There
was violence in the air, but I was not violent. And with a bath and
my dinner clothes I put away the horrors of the day.

My wife was better, but the cook had given notice.

"There has been quarreling among the servants all day," my wife said.
"I wish I could go and live on a desert island."