s made on the Continent--and made chiefly for the American trade,'"
continued the book.

"Well, who cares if it is," snapped Billy, springing to her feet and
tossing the volume aside. "Spunkie, come here! You've simply got to play
with me. Do you hear? I want to be gay--_gay_--GAY! He's gay. He's down
there with those men, where he wants to be. Where he'd _rather_ be than
be with me! Do you think I want him to come home and find me moping over
a stupid old book? Not much! I'm going to have him find me gay, too.
Now, come, Spunkie; hurry--wake up! He'll be here right away, I'm sure."
And Billy shook a pair of worsted reins, hung with little soft balls,
full in Spunkie's face.

But Spunkie would not wake up, and Spunkie would not play. She pretended
to. She bit at the reins, and sank her sharp claws into the dangling
balls. For a fleeting instant, even, something like mischief gleamed in
her big yellow eyes. Then the jaws relaxed, the paws turned to velvet,
and Spunkie's sleek gray head settled slowly back into lazy comfort.
Spunkie was asleep.

Billy gazed at the cat with reproachful eyes.

"And you, too, Spunkie," she murmured. Then she got to her feet and went
back to her chair. This time she picked up a magazine and began to turn
the leaves very fast, one after another.

Half-past nine came, then ten. Pete appeared at the door to get Spunkie,
and to see that everything was all right for the night.

"Mr. Bertram is not in yet?" he began doubtfully.

Billy shook her head with a bright smile.

"No, Pete. Go to bed. I expect him every minute. Good night."

"Thank you, ma'am. Good night."

The old man picked up the sleepy cat and went down-stairs. A little
later Billy heard his quiet steps coming back through the hall and
ascending the stairs. She listened until from away at the top of the
house she heard his door close. Then she drew a long breath.

Ten o'clock--after ten o'clock, and Bertram not there yet! And was this
what he called dinner? Did one eat, then, till ten o'clock, when one
dined with one's friends?

Billy was angry now--very angry. She was too angry to be reasonable.
This thing that her husband had done seemed monstrous to her, smarting,
as she was, under the sting of hurt pride and grieved loneliness--the
state of mind into which she had worked herself. No longer now did she
wish to be gay when her husband came. No longer did she even pretend to
assume indifference. Bertram had done wrong. He