But at this moment the other men entered and she whispered
hurriedly, "Will you select and send them? Any--any--I don't care
what."

The doctor came toward them full of good wine and laughter. The
books meant nothing to him. He had forgotten his wife's inexplicable
taste for serious literature. He now found her quite perfect but was
worried about her health. The tonics and horseback riding he had
prescribed seemed to have little effect.

"I am going to take you away and send you to bed," he said jovially.
"No sitting up after nine o'clock until you are yourself again, and
not another ball this winter. A wife is a great responsibility,
Masters. Any other woman is easier to prescribe for, but the wife of
your bosom knows you so well she can fool you, as no woman who
expects a bill twice a year would dare to do. Still, she's pretty
good, pretty good. She's never had an attack of nerves, nor fainted
yet. And as for 'blues' she doesn't know the meaning of the word.
Come along, sweetheart."

Madeleine smiled half cynically, half wistfully, shook hands with
her host and made him a pretty little speech, nodded to the others
and went obediently to bed. The doctor, whose manners were courtly,
escorted her to the door of their parlor and returned to Masters'
rooms. The other women left immediately afterward, and as it was
Saturday night, he and his host and Mr. McLane talked until nearly
morning.