were going."

"Well, you see—Romer asked me to take a little trip with him. He thought I looked fagged out. He starts in—Jove! He starts in twenty minutes."

"And you have n't had any breakfast!" said Jean; her divine self-oblivion pushed to the front,—a trained soldier. But her chin trembled in a touching fashion that she had when she was too much grieved to say so, or too weak to admit that she was grieved.

He had risen from his knees and stood beside her, looking down. Her weakness and her loveliness seemed to lift themselves towards him like pleading things which he thrust off. He felt uncomfortable and irresolute. He was conscious of trying not to look annoyed.

"You are going in a boat?" she asked, very faintly now.

"Well—yes—a sort of boat." Avery fumbled fatuously. "It's quite a safe one," he added. "And Romer says"— He began to tell her what Romer said.

"And guns?" she whispered. "There will be guns?"

"Oh, I presume Tom has a gun," replied the husband, with what he felt to be an ingenious veracity. "You know I 'm no shot. I don't like guns much better than you do, dear.... I 'm getting late," he observed abruptly. "But I won't go, Jean, if you don't want me to. I thought it might set me up a little," he added, before she could reply.

In fact, she did not seem to incline to reply, or did not feel able to do so; he could not tell which. She lay looking up at him quite steadily. Molly had taken both the children into the nursery, and the two were alone. A clock ticked on the mantel in a loud, irritating tone. The white silk Spanish shawl which had fallen from the lounge hung to his coat-sleeve; it was a delicate thing, and the fringe clung like tendrils; he had to tear it off roughly.

He bethought him to wrap the shawl about her when he had done this, for she seemed to be cold. As he bent to perform for her this little service—which was offered with an obtrusive tenderness—he stooped and kissed her throat. The soft, sweet flesh quivered at his touch. Jean raised her weak arms and clasped them about his neck. But they fell back instantly, as if the action had hurt her.

"Come, dear," he resumed hurriedly. "Shall I go—or not?"

"I don't feel quite well," faltered Jean. "I think—I slept too long—that heavenly sleep ... last night"—

"I 'll go and tell Romer I can't go," said Avery shortly. He started, and went half across the room, then paused. "Well, Jean?" he suggested. Jean did not reply. She was lying just as he had left her, with her arms fallen at her sides, her bright hair brushed back from her face, which looked strangely prominent and large. There was that in her eyes which a man would not have refused in a dog. The husband returned impetuously to her side.

"Poor Jean! I won't go. Really I won't. I 'll do just as you say—truly I will. Won't you say, Jean? Won't you express a wish?"

But Jean shook her head. The time had come when she had no wish to express; and she seemed not to have the strength to express even the fact that she had none.

"If you think it best ... for you" ... The words were inarticulate.

"I really do," urged Avery uncomfortably. "At least, I did—that is, unless you are actually too ill to spare me.... How is a man to know?" he muttered, not thinking she would hear.

"Good-by," breathed Jean. She did not try to lift her arms this time. He stooped and kissed her affectionately. Her lips clung to his. But her eyes clung longer than her lips. They clasped him until he felt that if he did not throw them off, he could not get away.

Across the room he paused. "I 'll send Thorne," he said. "I 'll send the doctor. I can't go unless I feel quite safe about you. And I 'll call Molly as I go down."

He tried to add something about telegrams, and how short a trip it was, and so on. But Jean's eyes silenced him. Solemn, mute, distant, they looked upon him like the eyes of an alien being moving through the experiences of an unknown world. For a moment their expression appalled him; it was not reproach; it was scarcely to be called anguish; rather a fine and tragic astonishment, for which speech would have been too coarse a medium. But he shut the door, caught Pink, who was crying for her breakfast, kissed the child, and went.

As he stepped out into the street, the morning air struck him a slap in the face. The wind was rising, and it hit him hard in the breast, as if it had the mind to push him back. He forced his way against it, and reached the club out of breath and with suffused face, as if he were blushing. He flung an order at the desk:—

"Telephone for Dr. Thorne. Tell him Mrs. Avery is n't feeling quite as well as usual, and I am unfortunately called away. He 'd better go right over to the house."

He dashed into the dining-room, poured out a cup of coffee, and hurried to the river-wall. The Dream lay off in mid-stream—a white seventy-footer schooner-rigged, with a new suit of sails that presented an almost startling brightness in the early morning light. The tender was already manned, and rowed in impatiently at his signal. He was fifteen minutes late. He said nothing to the crew, assuming the ready lordliness of a poor man who had never owned and would never own a yacht, but apologized rather unnecessarily to Romer when he got aboard, explaining the circumstances with more minuteness than was necessary.

"Why, great Scott, man!" said Romer. "I 'd have waited for you another day—any number of them—if Mrs. Avery lifted an eyelash. Put you ashore now, if you say so."

But Avery shook his head magnanimously. The yacht slipped her mooring and swung slowly into the channel, careened under the strong westerly, and slid away. It was uncommon for pleasure boats of the Dream's class to anchor in the river, but it had been Romer's whim; if he did not value playing le bon prince at the club, he liked to do the uncommon with his yacht; he amused himself and his guest with the laggard process of getting out into the bay, pointing out the picturesqueness gained at the expense of time and trouble, and making himself entertaining—as Romer could—with the vivacity of a sportsman and the ingenuity of an accomplished host. Marshall Avery was not talkative, and replied with effort.

"We 'll have breakfast as soon as we 're through the draw," said Romer. It occurred to Avery that it would be impossible to eat. He sat with his eyes fixed on the housetops of the West End. In the early air and color this decorous section had a misty and gracious effect, half mysterious, wholly uncharacteristic of that architectural commonplace. There was the tower of the Church of the Happy Saints. And three blocks beyond—Molly would be just about bringing up the tray, and setting it on the invalid table beside the blue lounge.

"Somebody 's driving up back of the club," observed Tom Romer. "It's a buggy—looks a little like Thorne's, does n't it? Has those top wings. It's stopped at the river-wall." He handed the marine glass to his guest.

"All those doctors' buggies are alike," replied Avery. "I can't see very well," he added. In fact, the glass shook in his hand.

The yacht slipped through the draw comfortably, and headed to the harbor. The club, the river-wall, the buggy, vanished from the glass. The two gentlemen went below to breakfast. When they came on deck again, the Dream was easily clearing the harbor and making out to sea.

The wind was fair, and the yacht fled under full canvas.

"She walks right along!" cried Romer. He was exhilarated by the speed of his boat, which was, in fact, a racer, and built in all her lines to get over a triangular course in the least possible time. He talked about her safe points to the landsman (who responded with the satisfaction of ignorance), but the final end of the Dream's being was speed, unqualified by inferior considerations. To this American idol, boats, like men, are sacrificed as matters of course. One scarcely makes conversation on so