rried or the hitherto virtuous; who plan a campaign leisurely and to
whom possession must be preceded by difficulties. Frequently these
gentry have been crude, but as satiation comes on a new excitement is
sought in the invasion of other men's homes. Undoubtedly they have a
philosophy of life that justifies them.

Since this is not a novel we may omit the method by which one of these
men found his way to the secret desires of our patient, and how he
proceeded to develop her dissatisfaction into momentary physical
disloyalty. She came out of her dereliction dazed; could it be she who
had done this, who had descended into the vilest degradation? She broke
off all relations with the man, probably much to his surprise and
disgust, and plunged into a self-accusatory internal debate that brought
about a profound neurasthenia.

Naturally she did not of her own accord speak of her
unfaithfulness,--largely because no one knew of it. Her husband did not
in the least suspect her; he thought she needed a rest, a change, little
realizing how "change" had broken her down. (For after all, the most of
infidelity is based on a sort of curiosity, a seeking of a new stimulus,
rather than true passion.) The truth was forced out of her when it was
evident to me that something was obsessing her.

When she had confessed her difficulty the question arose as to her
husband. She was no longer dissatisfied, no longer eager for romance;
but could she live with him if she had been unfaithful? Ought she not to
tell him; and yet she feared to do this, feared the result to him, for
she felt sure he would forgive her. In reality the conflict in her mind
arose first from self-depreciation and second from indecision as to
confession.

As to the self-accusation, I told her that though she had been very
foolish she had punished herself severely enough; that her reaction was
that of an _essentially moral_ person; that an essentially immoral woman
would have continued in her career, and at least would not have been so
remorseful. As to confessing, I told her that I believed that if she
came to peace without such a confession wisdom would dictate not to make
it, and that perhaps a little romanticism was still present in the
quixotic idea of confession. Discretion is sometimes the better part of
veracity, and I felt sure that she would not find it difficult to forget
her pain.

It may be questioned whether such advice was ethical. I am sure no two
profes