d to-day. I am half stunned by the possibilities of human
existence. One lives the simple life at Eastridge; and New York strikes
me on the head like some heavy thing blown down. If these are the
results of the very little love-affair of one very little girl--what
must the great emotion, the real experience, the vigorous crisis, bring?

At "The Sphinx," as is well known, no male being is admitted on any
pretence. I believe the porter (for heavy trunks) is the only
exception. The bell-boys are bell-girls. The clerk is a matron, and the
proprietress a widow in half-mourning.

At nine o'clock this morning I was peremptorily summoned out of the
breakfast-room and ordered to the desk. Two frowning faces received
me. With cold politeness I was reminded of the leading clause in the
constitution of that house.

"Positively," observed the clerk, "no gentlemen callers are permitted at
this hotel, and, madam, there are two on the door-steps who insist upon
an interview with you; they have been there half an hour. One of them
refuses to recognize the rule of the house. He insists upon an immediate
suspension of it. I regret to tell you that he went so far as to mention
that he would have a conversation with you if it took a search-warrant
to get it."

"He says," interrupted the proprietress in half-mourning, "that he is
your husband."

She spoke quite distinctly, and as these dreadful words re-echoed
through the lobby, I saw that two ladies had come out from the
reception-room and were drinking the scene down. One of these was the
fat lady with the three chins; the other was the poodle girl. She held
him, at that unpleasant moment, by a lavender ribbon leash. It seems she
gets a permit for him everywhere.

And he is the wrong sex, I am sure, to obtain any privileges at "The
Sphinx."

The mosaic of that beautiful lobby did not open and swallow me down as
I tottered across it to the vestibule. A strapping door-girl guarded
the entrance. Grouped upon the long flight of marble steps two men
impatiently awaited me. The one with the twitching mustache was Dr.
Denbigh. But he, oh, he with the lightning in his eyes, he was my
husband, Thomas Price.

"Maria," he began, with ominous composure, "if you have any explanations
to offer of these extraordinary circumstances--" Then the torrent burst
forth. Every expletive familiar to the wives of good North-American
husbands broke from Tom's unleashed lips. "I didn't hear of it till
aft