eyes on me, and I half expected him
to be shocked, or to say that married women should be satisfied with the
nice things their husbands say to them. But he merely remarked apropos
of nothing, or following a line of thought he had not voiced, that it
was trite but true that a good many men owed their success in life to
their wives.

"And a good many owe their wives to their success in life," I retorted
cynically. At which he stared at me again.

It was then that the real complexity of the situation began to develop.
Some one had rung the bell and been admitted to the library and a maid
came to the door of the den. When she saw us she stopped uncertainly.
Even then it struck me that she looked odd, and she was not in uniform.
However, I was not informed at that time about bachelor establishments,
and the first thing she said, when she had asked to speak to me in the
hall, knocked her and her clothes clear out of my head. Evidently she
knew me.

"Miss McNair," she said in a low tone. "There is a lady in the drawing
room, a veiled person, and she is asking for Mr. Wilson."

"Can you not find him?" I asked. "He is in the house, probably in the
studio."

The girl hesitated.

"Excuse me, miss, but Miss Caruthers--"

Then I saw the situation.

"Never mind," I said. "Close the door into the drawing room, and I will
tell Mr. Wilson."

But as the girl turned toward the doorway, the person in question
appeared in it, and raised her veil. I was perfectly paralyzed. It was
Bella! Bella in a fur coat and a veil, with the most tragic eyes I ever
saw and entirely white except for a dab of rouge in the middle of each
cheek. We stared at each other without speech. The maid turned and went
down the hall, and with that Bella came over to me and clutched me by
the arm.

"Who was being carried out into that ambulance?" she demanded, glaring
at me with the most awful intensity.

"I'm sure I don't know, Bella," I said, wriggling away from her fingers.
"What in the world are you doing here? I thought you were in Europe."

"You are hiding something from me!" she accused. "It is Jim! I see it in
your face."

"Well, it isn't," I snapped. "It seems to me, really, Bella, that you
and Jim ought to be able to manage your own affairs, without dragging me
in." It was not pleasant, but if she was suffering, so was I. "Jim is as
well as he ever was. He's upstairs somewhere. I'll send for him."

She gripped me again, and held on while her