ing could be. She had been mistaken; it was not
her husband that she had seen, and if it were her husband then was he on
some errand as innocent as her own. But it was her husband. The effort
she was making to deceive herself was useless as broken glass. And as
for the woman with whom he was driving, what had he to do with her or
she with him? She was certain she had seen her face before.

In her nervousness she rose from her seat and paced the room, tearing
her gloves off and tossing them from her as she walked.

In the lives of most of us there are hours of such distress that in
search of a palliative we strive as best we may to cheat ourselves into
thinking that the distress is but a phase of our own individual
imagination, close-locked therein, barred out of real existence, and
unimportant and delusive as the creations of dream. And as Eden paced
the room she tried to feel that her distress was but a figment of fancy,
an illusory representation evoked out of nothing. She had been enervated
by the gossip of the lunch-table; a child startled by the possible
horrors of a dark closet was never more absurd than she. It was nonsense
to suppose that a man such as her husband could be capable of a vulgar
intrigue.

On the mantel a clock ticked dolently, as though in sympathy with her
woe, and presently to her inattentive ears, it rang out four times. In
an hour, she reflected, in two hours at most, he would return. She would
ask him where he had been, and everything would be explained. It was
nonsense for her to torment herself. Of course it would be explained,
and meanwhile----

And as she determined that meanwhile she would give the matter no
further thought the butler entered the room, bearing a note on a salver,
which he gave to her and withdrew. The superscription was in her
husband's handwriting and she pulled the envelope apart, confident that
the explanation for which she sought was contained therein. But in it no
explanation was visible. It was dated from Wall Street. "Dearest Eden,"
it ran, "I am detained on business. Send excuses to Mrs. Manhattan. In
haste, as ever, J. U."

"Detained on business," she repeated aloud very firmly and pressed her
hand to her head. She was calm, less agitated than she had been before.
It behooved her to determine what she should do. Seemingly, but one
course was open to her, and suddenly she perceived that she had stopped
thinking. Night had seized and surrounded her; it was of