he appeared to be at the window waiting for
him. After all, she was probably not as suspicious as he thought. It was
his own imagination. He was too nervous and sensitive. Well, he would
get those pieces now if he could and throw them out of the window.
Angela should not have a chance to examine them if she wanted to. He
slipped out into the kitchen, made a quick grab for the little heap, and
sent the pieces flying. Then he felt much better. He would never bring
another letter home from anybody, that was a certainty. Fate was too
much against him.

Angela came out after a bit, for the click of the bathroom knob had
sobered her a little. Her rage was high, her pulse abnormal, her whole
being shaken to its roots, but still she realized that she must have
time to think. She must see who this woman was first. She must have time
to find her. Eugene mustn't know. Where was she now? Where was this
bridge? Where did they meet? Where did she live? She wondered for the
moment why she couldn't think it all out, why it didn't come to her in a
flash, a revelation. If she could only know!

In a few minutes Eugene came in, clean-shaven, smiling, his equanimity
and peace of mind fairly well restored. The letter was gone. Angela
could never know. She might suspect, but this possible burst of jealousy
had been nipped in the bud. He came over toward her to put his arm round
her, but she slipped away from him, pretending to need the sugar. He let
this effort at love making go--the will for the deed, and sat down at
the snow-white little table, set with tempting dishes and waited to be
served. The day had been very pleasant, being early in October, and he
was pleased to see a last lingering ray of light falling on some red and
yellow leaves. This yard was very beautiful. This little flat, for all
their poverty, very charming. Angela was neat and trim in a dainty house
dress of mingled brown and green. A dark blue studio apron shielded her
bosom and skirt. She was very pale and distraught-looking, but Eugene
for the time was almost unconscious of it--he was so relieved.

"Are you very tired, Angela?" he finally asked sympathetically.

"Yes, I'm not feeling so well today," she replied.

"What have you been doing, ironing?"

"Oh, yes, and cleaning. I worked on the cupboard."

"You oughtn't to try to do so much," he said cheerfully. "You're not
strong enough. You think you're a little horse, but you are only a colt.
Better go slow, hadn'