ess
touched from within with the hue of abounding health, and her crimson
mouth was less tender than it was wont to be. But she leaned back in her
chair in a posture of grace that displayed to advantage the slender,
curving charm of her body, and her eyes, shining golden in the soft
light of the room, met the man's steadfastly, fearlessly.

"I--changed--to you!" Hamilton stormed. "Cicily! Cicily! What madness!
You know--oh, absurd! Why, Cicily, I love you.... I think of you
always!"

"Oh, yes, you love me," Cicily agreed, contemptuously, "You think of me
always--when your other love will let you."

"Cicily!"

"I mean it," came uncompromisingly, in answer to Hamilton's look of
horror. "I mean every word of it!"

"Cicily," the husband besought, as a great dread fell on his soul,
"remember, you are my wife--my love!"

"Yes, I'm one of them." The tone was icy; the gaze fixed on his face was
unwavering.

But this utterance was too sinister to be borne. The pride of the man in
his own faithfulness was outraged. His voice was low when he spoke
again, yet in it was a quality that the young wife had never heard
before. It frightened her sorely, although she concealed its effect by a
mighty effort of will.

"That is an insult to you and to me, Cicily. It is an insult I cannot--I
will not--permit."

It was evident to Cicily that she had carried the war in this direction
far enough; she hastened her retreat.

"Oh, I didn't say that you were in love with another woman," she
explained, with an excellent affectation of carelessness. "For that
matter, I know very well that you're not." Then, as Hamilton regarded
her with a face blankly uncomprehending, she went on rapidly, with
something of the venomous in her voice: "Sometimes, I wish you were.
Then, I'd fight her, and beat her. It would give me something to do."
She paused for a moment, and laughed bitterly. "Oh, please, Charles, do
fall in love with some other woman, won't you?"

Hamilton started toward the telephone in the hall.

"It's the doctor you want, not the automobile," he called over his
shoulder.

"Nonsense!" Cicily cried. "Stop!" And, as he turned back reluctantly,
she went on with her explanation: "No, it isn't the lure of some siren
in a Paquin dress--or undress: it's the lure of the game--the great,
horrid, hideous business game, which has got you, just as it's got most
of the American husbands who are worth having. That's the lure we
American women