now, the more they would appreciate their happiness later on.
Henry belonged to the large circle of human beings who consider that
there is acuter pleasure in being suddenly cured of toothache than in
never having toothache at all.

He merely chuckled inwardly, therefore, when, on the morning of her
birthday, having presented her with a purse which he knew she had long
coveted, he found himself thanked in a perfunctory and mechanical way.

'I'm glad you like it,' he said.

Minnie looked at the purse without enthusiasm.

'It's just what I wanted,' she said, listlessly.

'Well, I must be going. I'll get the tickets for the theatre while I'm
in town.'

Minnie hesitated for a moment.

'I don't believe I want to go to the theatre much tonight, Henry.'

'Nonsense. We must have a party on your birthday. We'll go to the
theatre and then we'll have supper at Geisenheimer's again. I may be
working after hours at the bank today, so I guess I won't come home.
I'll meet you at that Italian place at six.'

'Very well. You'll miss your walk, then?'

'Yes. It doesn't matter for once.'

'No. You're still going on with your walks, then?'

'Oh, yes, yes.'

'Three miles every day?'

'Never miss it. It keeps me well.'

'Yes.'

'Good-bye, darling.'

'Good-bye.'

Yes, there was a distinct chill in the atmosphere. Thank goodness,
thought Henry, as he walked to the station, it would be different
tomorrow morning. He had rather the feeling of a young knight who has
done perilous deeds in secret for his lady, and is about at last to
receive credit for them.

Geisenheimer's was as brilliant and noisy as it had been before when
Henry reached it that night, escorting a reluctant Minnie. After a
silent dinner and a theatrical performance during which neither had
exchanged more than a word between the acts, she had wished to abandon
the idea of supper and go home. But a squad of police could not have
kept Henry from Geisenheimer's. His hour had come. He had thought of
this moment for weeks, and he visualized every detail of his big scene.
At first they would sit at their table in silent discomfort. Then
Sidney Mercer would come up, as before, to ask Minnie to dance. And
then--then--Henry would rise and, abandoning all concealment, exclaim
grandly: 'No! I am going to dance with my wife!' Stunned amazement of
Minnie, followed by wild joy. Utter rout and discomfiture of that
pin-head, Mercer. And then, when they returned to the