have almost become talked
about." His voice grew more bitter as he continued to recall the past.
"Had you been a plain woman you would likely have found some
attractions at your home; but the love of adulation and the greed of
excitement and false flattery seem now to be so necessary to you that
your true womanliness has been killed."

He was now pacing the floor in deep agitation.

A transformation had crept over his wife's face. Her cheeks were no
longer pale, but flushed with anger, while her head was thrown back
defiantly and her hands tightly clenched.

"And has my lord finished the list of his wife's accomplishments?" she
asked, smothering her anger by a strong effort, and speaking as though
in jest.

Quietly walking over to where she was sitting, he said, in a tense
voice: "No, not quite. The bitterest memory I have of my wife is her
heartless conduct toward the memory of our poor dead boy. When he was
alive I really believed that you loved him passionately; but scarcely
had he been dead a year when this greed for gaiety and excitement took
possession of you, and you began to go out everywhere. You knew he was
dearer to me than life, and that his memory was with me every hour of
the day. How little true sentiment, after all, there must have been in
your professed idolization of him. With such a mother it is perhaps
well that he is dead!" His voice broke for a moment as memories of the
boy he had so idolized crowded back upon him. Looking into her now
flashing eyes he continued bitterly: "I am weary of the bitter scenes
between us, and of your heartlessness, Grace, and we must part. I
shall leave the house to-night and live my life elsewhere. You can
stay here and enjoy the frivolity which is dearer to you than your
husband, the memory of your dead boy, or--"

"You are a coward, Harold Townsley!" As she faced him, her head thrown
back, her opera cloak lying in artistic disorder at her feet, exposing
the richly trimmed dress, and the soft outlines of her fine figure,
her eyes flashing and her bosom rapidly heaving, she looked, indeed,
ready to do and dare anything.

Had he not been so wrought up himself he would have seen that he was
goading her beyond endurance. When he mentioned their dead boy she had
winced as though in bodily pain, but when he accused her of
heartlessness towards his memory, she had grown so unstrung that she
could scarcely contain herself. Never before in their differences had
he accu