a cat. An odd symptom of fatigue.

What a curious thing life was. How widely it departed from the
traditional patterns. Here in his own case, that Fate should save the one
real passion of his life for the Indian summer of it. And that it should
be a reciprocated passion. The wiseacres were smiling at him, he
supposed; smiling as the world always smiled at the spectacle of
infatuate age mating with tolerant, indifferently acquiescent youth.
Smiled and wondered how long it would be before youth awoke and turned to
its own. Well, he could afford to smile at the wiseacres. And at the
green inexperienced young, as well, who thought that love was exclusively
their affair--children the age of Mary taking their sentimental thrills
so seriously!

Four years now he had been married to Paula and the thing had never
chilled,--never gone stale. How different from the love of his youth that
had led to his former marriage, was this burning constant flame. Paula
was utterly content with him. She had given up her career for him.--No.
She hadn't done that. He had not asked her to do that. Had not, on the
contrary, her marriage really furthered it? Was she not more of a person
to-day than the discouraged young woman he had found singing for
pittances the leading dramatic soprano roles in the minor municipal
operas of Germany and Austria? Wasn't that what she had said this
morning--that falling in love with him was the best thing that could
possibly have happened to her? He had taken it wrong when she said it, as
if she were regarding him just as an instrument that served her purpose,
a purpose that lay beyond him; outside him.

That was what had given him that momentary pang of terror. Fatigue, of
course. He ought to go to sleep. Paula was refraining from her morning
practise just so that he could. Or was that why? Was she dreaming, up in
the music room where she was never to be disturbed,--of last night--of
Novelli? Damnation....

CHAPTER II

SEA DRIFT

Paula went up to the music room after breakfast, stood at one of its
open windows for a few minutes breathing in the air of an unusually
mild March and then abruptly left it; dressed for the street and went
out for a walk.

She was quite as much disturbed over the scene in the dining-room as her
husband had been. His flash of jealousy over the little Italian pianist,
instantly recognizable through its careful disguise, had only endeared
John Wollaston to her further, if