"A poor sick woman like me?"

"A sweet, little, lovely, pooty Elsie--Joe's own little wifey! how could
he help it?"

Mrs. Decker fondly cast one arm around her husband's neck, still keeping
the roses to her face with the other. From behind them she began to
murmur gently and idiotically, "Dear, ole square Joey. Elsie's oney
booful big bear." But, really, I do not see that my duty as a chronicler
of facts compels me to continue this little lady's speech any further;
and, out of respect to the unmarried reader, I stop.

Nevertheless, the next morning Mrs. Decker betrayed some slight
and apparently uncalled for irritability on reaching the Plaza, and
presently desired her husband to wheel her back home. Moreover, she
was very much astonished at meeting Mr. Oakhurst just as they were
returning, and even doubted if it were he, and questioned her husband
as to his identity with the stranger of yesterday as he approached. Her
manner to Mr. Oakhurst, also, was quite in contrast with her husband's
frank welcome. Mr. Oakhurst instantly detected it. "Her husband has
told her all, and she dislikes me," he said to himself, with that fatal
appreciation of the half-truths of a woman's motives that causes the
wisest masculine critic to stumble. He lingered only long enough to take
the business address of the husband, and then lifting his hat gravely,
without looking at the lady, went his way. It struck the honest
master-carpenter as one of the charming anomalies of his wife's
character, that, although the meeting was evidently very much
constrained and unpleasant, instantly afterward his wife's spirits began
to rise. "You was hard on him, a leetle hard; wasn't you, Elsie?"
said Mr. Decker deprecatingly. "I'm afraid he may think I've broke