Romer; and he was uncommonly glad to see Avery. The two gentlemen, with Armstrong and another man, grouped upon a game of billiards. Romer proposed whist, but Armstrong said it was too late for whist. Avery did not say anything, and he played stupidly, and after a while asked to be excused, and got up to go home.

"You 're looking fagged," observed Tom Romer, knocking the ashes from his cigar artistically. "You 're overworked. Most of you professional chaps are. Come yachting with me, on the Dream. We 're going to the Sound after ducks. Back in a week. Start at seven o'clock to-morrow morning. Stay and put up here, and get off with me. Oh! I forgot. You 're one of those married men."

"Yes," replied Avery, with a consciousness of superior virtue. "I could n't go without saying good-by to my wife. I wouldn't think of it for a moment," he added loftily. "Give me a minute, Romer, to think it over, will you?"

He strolled to the window, and looked out at the waters of the black river which rushed whirling past the rear of the clubhouse. It occurred to him that Armstrong watched him anxiously. But Armstrong did not speak.

"I 'll go—thanks!" said Avery, coming back, with his hands in his pockets. "I 'll get word to the office; they can manage without me, somehow—that is, if you 'll promise to get me back in a week?"

"I 'll set you ashore at the back yard of this club six days from to-morrow," answered Romer. "The Dream 's a dandy," added the yachtsman, swelling a little. "She can do it."

Avery replied absently, and hurriedly started for home. In fact, he ran most of the way (Dr. Armstrong could not keep up with him), for he was shocked to find that it was now one o'clock.

"Poor Jean!" he thought; "I stayed too long." Then he remembered for the first time that he had got to tell Jean that he was going. It occurred to him for a moment that he would rather give up going with Romer than tell Jean. But it was now too late to do that.

"You see," he said, stopping for Armstrong to overtake him, "I 've got to go, now." But Armstrong did not reply; he turned in at his own house with a manner which his friend felt to be superfluous. Avery experienced a certain resentment against the dentist. He was relieved to be alone, and walked more slowly.

When he came into his own hall, the house was perfectly still. He took off his shoes, and tiptoed upstairs, pausing at the door of his wife's room. She was sleeping so soundly that she did not hear him—an unusual circumstance, for Jean, though a good sleeper, as we said, was a light one. The husband was conscious that he had fallen on better chance than he deserved. He had expected to find her awake, and more or less nervous over his belated return.

"What luck!" he thought. Yes, he was really very glad that Jean was asleep, poor girl. She would take it hard—to-morrow. He moved about like a cat, packing his valise. He had several letters to write, too,—one to his partner, one or two to clients, and one—well, why not? Why not write one to his wife? It would obviate a great deal of trouble on both sides; in fact, it would save him so much that he persuaded himself, without undue difficulty, that it would save her too. So he wrote the letter. It was a very affectionate letter. It set forth in the tenderest terms his devotion to her, and to her true interests, which, plainly, would be best served by some attention to his own health; he was really overworked; the Electric case had got where it could be left for a few days, and he would distinctly be gone but a few days; he promised her that—a week at the outside—and she was always so glad to have him get any sort of a vacation. He felt sure that he could count upon her sympathy in going. He would think of her constantly, and fly back to her with that constant—etc.—faithful, true, and tender—etc.—etc. He had to start so early in the morning that he would not wake her up. He would telegraph her from the first port they made. She must remember that the yacht was as safe as a Cunarder; they were only going to the Sound. He said nothing about ducks or guns. He gave her a Cape address to which she could send any message she chose. She must not get nervous. She must take the best care of herself for his sake. And he was her devoted husband.

He slipped this letter under her door—slept a few hours—and waked at five. At half-past five he crept downstairs, his valise in his hand, and his heart in his throat. He heard Pink talking and grinding her teeth in her sleep; but Jean did not stir, thank Heaven. He slid out of the front door like a burglar, and ran. It was a brisk morning, and promised to be a fresh southwesterly. He walked a little way in the direction of the club. Abruptly he stopped, turned, and ran back.

"It would n't do," he said; "I must see her; I must if the Dream sails without me. Let her sail!" he added. He pushed open the front door, and rushed noisily upstairs.

The family was astir; the baby was crying; Pink was trotting about the upper hall, unnoticed, in her little nightgown and bare feet. He did not hear Jean's voice, but Molly's struck upon his ear in an agitated, incoherent manner. He went in through his own room; he was relieved to find that the letter under the door had not been disturbed. He caught it up, and slipped it swiftly into his pocket.

"It would not have done at all," he thought. He felt ashamed of himself that he had ever supposed for a moment it would have done. He really felt very thankful that he had decided to come back and break the news to her in person. It occurred to him that it was the least he could do under the circumstances. With a certain self-satisfaction on his face, he pushed his way into his wife's room.

Jean was not on the bed; she was lying on the lounge, across whose blue pillow he saw that the white silk Spanish shawl he gave her was tossed in a disorderly way. The lace frill of her nightdress was torn open at the throat. Her abundant yellow hair was loose, and partly concealed her face. She was imperfectly covered with a blanket that she had dragged with her from her bed in some desperate endeavor, whose pitiful story might never be known, to summon help.

"I did n't hear me bell!" cried Molly. "An' there she do be lyin' when I come in."

"Jean!" called Avery loudly; "Jean!"

PART II

At the claim of his voice she responded; smiling, she stirred. He could not help remembering how she had once said, "If I were dead, I should answer you if you called me, Marshall." And for the moment, she had looked—but it was not death.

She opened her large eyes and regarded him—strangely, he thought, for the instant; then with the lambent look which belonged to Jean, and quite steadily. He knelt by her, and drew the blanket up, and buttoned the nightdress at her throat with clumsy fingers.

"I have come back to say"—he began. But he could not say it. "Have you had an ill turn?" he temporized.

"I don't know," said Jean.

"How did you happen to be on the lounge?"

"I don't know," repeated Jean.

"Are you suffering, dear?"

"I fell asleep," said Jean, after some thought.

"Don't you remember when you got out of bed?"

"I have had a wonderful sleep," said Jean. "I never had anything of the kind before. It was like heaven."

"Are you suffering now?"

"No—I think not—no. I feel pretty weak. But I am not suffering."

"Shall I call the doctor?"

"I sha'n't need the doctor. I don't want ... I don't need anybody but you."

She turned and put her hand to his cheek. Her long hair fell away from her face and revealed its expression; he turned his own away at sight of it.

"How early you are dressed!" she said, in a different tone.

"I was going out," he stammered. "I was—going away."

"Oh! Going! Where are you going?"

"I won't, if you don't want me to."

"You did n't say where you