"I--didn't mean to--" he stammered. "I--I--of course, you
understand--Really, dearest, I'm sorry I've been so occupied lately. I
hope things will brighten up soon; then, I shall be more sociable. I've
thought about our anniversary, too. It's too bad I was tied up that
night!"

Cicily rose from her position on the arm of her husband's chair, and
strolled across the room.

"Oh, that's all right," she remarked, in an indifferent tone of voice.
"Of course, business must come first." Her beautiful face was very
somber now; her eyes were turned away from the man.

But Hamilton was amply content. His absorption in other things rendered
him somewhat unobservant of certain niceties in expression just now. He
sprang up, and went to his wife. With his hands on her shoulders, he
declared his satisfaction with the situation as it appeared to him at
this time:

"That's my real Cicily--my little girl!... Now, another anniversary--"

"Oh, yes," the wife agreed, "as I reminded you before, there will be
plenty of other anniversaries--lots more--so many more!" The melancholy
note in her voice escaped the listener, as she had known that it would.
His answer was enthusiastic:

"Yes, indeed! Both of our families are long-lived. Do you remember, when
we got engaged, how you said it was so awfully serious, because all the
women in your family lived to be seventy or more?"

"Yes, I remember!" Then, abruptly recalling the original motive with
which she had sought this conversation, Cicily, by an effort of will
that cost her much, spoke with a manner half-gaily sympathetic:

"Charles, why don't you tell me now all about this horrid business of
yours?"

At the question, the man's face quickly grew grim, and the frown
deepened perceptibly between his brows. He dropped his hands from his
wife's shoulders, turned away, and went back to reseat himself in the
chair by the broad table, on which was spread out the bundle of business
papers. He did not look up toward the woman, who followed him with
something of timidity, and took her position anew in the chair facing
him. He had no eyes for the pleading anxiety in the gaze that was fixed
on him. His mood was once more heavy under the weight of business worry.

"Oh, what's the use of telling you!" he snapped, brutally; but that he
had meant nothing personal in the question was shown at once, for he
added, in the same sentence: "--or anybody else?"

Cicily had whitened a little at the opening