red they were not imaginary states.

My meditations were interrupted by the entrance of my wife, who, with an
anxious look on her face, inquired what was the matter. The butler had
said I seemed indisposed; so she had slipped away from our guests and
come up to see for herself. She was in full regalia--elaborate gown,
pearls, aigret.

"There's nothing the matter with me," I answered, though I know full
well I lied--I was poisoned.

"Well, that's a comfort, at any rate!" she replied, amiably enough.

"Where's Tom?" I asked wearily.

"I haven't any idea," she said frankly. "You know he almost never comes
home."

"And the girls?"

"Visiting the Devereuxs at Staatsburg," she answered. "Aren't you coming
down for some bridge?"

"No," I said. "To tell you the truth I never want to see a pack of cards
again. I want to cut the game. I'm sick of our life and the useless
extravagance. I want a change. Let's get rid of the whole thing--take a
smaller house--have fewer servants. Think of the relief!"

"What's the matter?" she cried sharply. "Have you lost money?"

Money! Money!

"No," I said, "I haven't lost money--I've lost heart!"

She eyed me distrustfully.

"Are you crazy?" she demanded.

"No," I answered. "I don't think I am."

"You act that way," she retorted. "It's a funny time to talk about
changing your mode of life--right in the middle of a bridge party! What
have you been working for all these years? And where do I come in? You
can go to your clubs and your office--anywhere; but all I've got is the
life you have taught me to enjoy! Tom is grown up and never comes near
me. And the girls--why, what do you think would happen to them if you
suddenly gave up your place in society? They'd never get married so long
as they lived. People would think you'd gone bankrupt! Really"--her eyes
filled and she dabbed at them with a Valenciennes handkerchief--"I think
it too heartless of you to come in this way--like a skeleton at the
feast--and spoil my evening!"

I felt a slight touch of remorse. I had broached the matter rather
roughly. I laid my hand on her shoulder--now so round and matronly, once
so slender.

"Anna," I said as tenderly as I could, "suppose I _did_ give it all up?"

She rose indignantly to her feet and shook off my hand.

"You'd have to get along without me!" she retorted; then, seeing the
anguish on my face, she added less harshly: "Take a brandy-and-soda and
go to bed. I'm sure you're not