CHAPTER XX

When we are in trouble we often take means to comfort ourselves that we should utterly despise in others.

Mrs. Whittaker in no way faltered in her resolve to win back Alfred to his old allegiance. The dinner was excellent.

“A very good bit of salmon,” said Alfred, looking inquiringly at his wife as he held the fish server and fork suggestively toward the dish; “you will have a bit more, dearest?”

“A little bit more,” said Regina.

In spite of the blow which had fallen upon her she was honestly and genuinely hungry. To a woman who lives well and eats her three meals a day, to say nothing of a very good tea thrown in, the loss of a meal is a very serious matter. Muffins, though consoling, are not possessed of much staying power, and Regina was, in spite of being so upset, genuinely famished.

“Cook is improving in her sharp sauce,” Alfred went on cheerfully as he helped himself a second time. “I often think,” he continued, “what a lucky thing it is that salmon is a summer fish, it is such a refreshing dish in hot weather.”

“Yes, I confess I like a bit of salmon myself,” said Regina, rather tamely.

Julia looked up. Something in her mother’s tone struck her as unusual. “Don’t you feel well to-day, mother?” she asked.

Alfred looked up sharply. “Don’t you feel all right?”

“Yes, quite all right,” she replied; “I think I want to get away.”

“You’re over-doing it,” said Alfred in genial yet uneasy tones. “Why don’t you take a little rest—not a holiday, but a rest from your outside work? You’re over-doing it.”

“I think so too,” said Regina. “I went down to the offices to-day and told them to prepare my resignation as President of the S.R.W.”

“Mother!” cried Julia in sharp staccato accents.

“Oh, come, come, you needn’t say ‘mother’ in that tone. It is the best bit of news I have heard for a long time. My dear, I look toward you—Stay, we’ll have a glass of fizz on the strength of it. Margaret, here, take my keys, go down to the cellar, look in bin marked number three and bring up a bottle.”

“Large or small, sir?”

“Oh, a large one.”

“If you did not like it, Alfred, I wish you had told me before,” said Regina, as the door closed behind Margaret.

“It isn’t that I did not like it, or that I grudged your amusing yourself in your own way, or making your life interests in your own way, but when I see you looking so worn and harried, so pulled down andfagged out—well, I naturally begin to wonder where it is going to end.”

“I’m getting older,” said Regina.

“Nonsense, nonsense, fiddle-faddle! we’re all getting older, as a matter of fact, but you are still a young woman in the very prime of life. When you have had a good change and a little sea air, when you give yourself a little more ease and a little more personal indulgence, you’ll look ten years younger, my dear child, ten years younger.”

Regina only replied by a smile. At that moment Margaret came back carrying, with the care of a thoroughly well-trained parlor-maid, the bottle of champagne in which they were to drink, as Alfred put it five minutes later, to the degeneration of Mrs. Whittaker.

“They’ll be very angry, they’ll never replace you,” he went on, leaning back in his chair and nursing his stomach in the manner peculiar to elderly gentlemen who do not despise their dinner; “I think they ought to give you a diamond star to show their appreciation of the star you have been to them.”

“I hope not,” said Regina, decidedly.

“Don’t fuss yourself,” put in Julia, whose fears for her mother were somewhat allayed; “they won’t. I notice that when women give things to women it is generally something they’ve got cheap. They’ll give you an illuminated address, no doubt, and you can frame it and hang it in the hall.”

“Not in the hall,” said Regina, who was not strong in the point of humor, “not in the hall, Julia darling.”

After that the evening passed over very quietly. Julia ran over to the house of Marksby and was seen no more till bed-time. Alfred sat down in his own special easy-chair in the cool, pleasant drawing-room, and, over a pretence of reading the newest art journal, gently dosed off into slumber, and Regina, in her corresponding chair in the big bow window, sat and thought she would leave nothing to chance. As for fate, she would brave it. Like her husband, she was making a pretence of reading, and as she sat thinking things over she became conscious that she was looking at the portrait of a very beautiful woman, exquisite in face, elegant in figure, luxuriously gowned. The journal she was holding in her hand was one devoted to feminine interests, and this was an interview with a lady very highly placed in Society. Some impulse made Regina turn to the beginning of the article and read it. “Devoted mother, idolized wife, adoredchâtelaine, the lady bountiful of her village, her highest aim is gratified in being her husband’s countess.” There was a portrait of the husband, who, in Regina’s eyes, was not to be named in the same twelvemonth with the noble Alfred sleeping on the other side of the room. There were pictures of the children, of her ladyship’s boudoir, of her village school and her cottage hospital. “The world has but little attraction for the beautiful subject of our sketch,” the article ended; “she is seen occasionally at Court and at great functions, as a part of her duties, but that is all. Her heart is in her beautiful country home with her husband and her children, and there she shares thejoys and sorrows of all who are brought in touch with the great historic name which she bears.”

Regina’s heart was stirred by new and conflicting emotions. She had, all her life, thought much of those who could be credited with working for eternity, whose toil was to benefit the whole world, to whom the personal touch had but small value. The picture of this great lady with her indisputable charms of beauty and disposition, came to her with an alluring sense of restfulness; here was one who wished to be far removed from the struggles of a contentious world, and somehow there came a second picture which linked itself with the first in a strange sweetness, the picture of an anxious, busy housewife, eager to honor the great guest, and through the summer night there seemed to float to Regina’s disturbed senses that simple, soft and sweet reproach, that was only a little bit of a reproach, “she hath chosen the better part and it shall not be taken away.” Yes, she was glad that she had laid the train for the resignation of her presidential office, she was glad that she was going to be all in all to her husband and children—well, husband and child. Perhaps before long Julia would take wings and fly away from the old nest as her sister had done before her. But Alfred would remain, and she determined in that soft summer evening hour that for Alfred’s sake she would choose the better part, and her title to honor should be within rather than without doors. Having arrived at this point in her thoughts, she began idly turning over the leaves of the journal in her hand. It contained nothing of particular interest to Regina; there wereaccounts of entertainments given by people to whom she was unknown; there was a page devoted to fashionable weddings, including a portrait of her own girl and of Harry Marksby, and a glowing account of the wedding just gone by; and then she came to a column of answers to correspondents which appeared under the heading of “Feminine Wants.” Regina’s heart gave a sick thrill as she saw the two words, “Feminine Wants.” The woes of womanhood seemed to crowd in upon her in an overwhelming wave of sorrow and desolation. Doubtless other women had suffered more than she had done. The first answer ran, “Humming Bird. I am so sorry for you, poor little thing, bravely struggling along in your little flat without a servant to do the rough work. Keep a brave heart, little wife, and always make a toilette for dinner. I know this may sound ridiculous, and I do not mean you to put on a low-necked dress, or commit any folly of that kind, but when you have set your dinner in train, go and dress yourself. Change your day dress for a silk blouse, do your hair smartly and neatly, have a smile ready for ‘him’ when he comes home, for he is just as tired and ready for refreshment as you are. You will enjoy your dinner twice as well if you have a little change in your gear, and you can easily put the dinner things on one side to be washed up in the morning. Be sure, after doing any dirty work, to wash your hands thoroughly with a spoonful of Lux in the water, then rub in a mixture of equal parts of glycerine and lemon juice. This will keep your hands soft and white.Write to me again if there is any way in which I can help you.”

Regina drew a long breath. It was hard on the little soul to have no servant, but, after all, they were boy and girl together; no hussy had crept in to dispute her kingdom. At that moment Regina would cheerfully have consented to wash dishes and clean doorsteps for the price of Alfred’s undivided affection.

“Sad Maudie,” was the next reply. “Yes, you are, indeed a sad Maudie, and I am truly sorry for you, for I well know the trouble that acne gives.” “Acne—that’s something to do with the skin,” said Regina to herself. “Send me a stamped and addressed envelope, and I will send you a prescription which will do wonders for this troublesome complaint. I would insert it here, but my editor does not like me to deal with medical matters in this column.”

“Cheerful Sally. It isnotetiquette to introduce callers when they meet in your drawing-room. Life would become utterly impossible if one were liable to meet one’s next-door neighbor, whom one had taken infinite pains to avoid, when merely paying a call. I should be very strict on this point if I were you, particularly as you are a newcomer in your neighborhood.”

Regina gave a sniff of disgust and passed on.

“Delia W. My dear Delia, you can’t be old and faded at your age, but you have let anxiety and worry get the better of you, and you should remedy these ill-effects at once. Go to Mrs. Vansittant, the famous beauty specialist, and put yourself unreservedly inher hands. It will cost you a few guineas, but to win your heart’s love, what is that?”

A sudden resolution seized hold of Regina. She would write to the editress of “Feminine Wants.” She got up softly and went to her writing-table.

“Dear Editress,” she wrote, “I am a woman of middle age. I have reason to believe that my husband has swerved from his allegiance to me. Tell me, what can I do to win him back? I am too stout, I have never taken care of my skin, I have let my hair take care of itself, I do not think I have good taste in dress. Pray advise your broken-hearted“Miranda.”

“Miranda.”

Sometimes it is a good thing to be aroused out of sleep, especially if the sleep has been a fool’s paradise.

Mrs. Whittaker crept softly out of the room, and went as softly out of the house. There was a pillar-box a little way along the road, and it was not an infrequent habit with her to carry her own letters to the post without troubling to make any sort of outdoor toilette. So on that soft summer night she gathered up her voluminous skirts, and with the letter in her hand went down the covered way to the gate and walked as far as the pillar-box.

“My dear,” said a neighbor, who had been to the club and was on his way home, as he entered the room where his wife was sitting, “I met Mrs. Whittaker just now. I never saw anything so remarkable.”

“Really! She’s always rather remarkable in her dress, but how?”

“I don’t know, but it was white; it looked like a voluminous exaggerated nightgown.”

“Mrs. Whittaker in a nightgown, Charley? She must have been out of her mind, or was she walking in her sleep, do you think?”

“Oh, no, I don’t think she was; she was evidently going to the post-box, but her gown—’Pon my word, she looked like a dressed-up figure in a carnival.”

“Oh, she is quite mad,” said the little wife; “they say she’s very nice, but quite mad.”

Meanwhile, Regina, all unconscious of the strictures which had been passed upon her appearance, had gone back into Ye Dene, and lingered in the covered way adjusting a plant here and a leaf there, as if she had no higher object in life than the arrangement of her house. It happened that Alfred woke up as his wife gently closed the door behind her.

“I thought Queenie was here. Dear me, it is quite chilly—what a fool I was to go to sleep here! I suppose it’s a sign of old age.”

Then he stretched out one arm and then the other one.

“I suppose I ought to write that letter to Jenkinson,” was his next thought. So he heaved himself up out of his comfortable chair, picked up the art magazine, and sought his own little sanctum, which was behind the dining-room. There he wrote a letter of three lines making an appointment for the next morning, and then he too set off for the pillar-box.

“Hullo! Queenie, are you here?” he exclaimed, as he saw the tall figure in the voluminous white draperies. “Walk up as far as the post with me.”

“Oh, are you going to the post?” she said. “I have just been. Yes, I will come with you, certainly.”

He opened the gate to let her pass out in front of him.

“You won’t take cold?” he said anxiously.

“Oh, no, not a night like this.”

“I don’t know,” he remarked, as they sauntered up the pathway together, “that there is much protection in a frock like this.”

“It’s not a frock, dear, it’s a tea-gown.”

“Oh, is it?”

“What the French callsaute de lit.”

“It’s flimsy. I don’t know that I altogether like it,” said Alfred, slipping his hand under her arm.

“It has the advantage of being cool,” said Regina.

“Yes, I daresay it is cool, but this kind of gown makes you look—” He wobbled his hand about to express something that was not very clear to either of them.

“I know, it makes me look too fat,” said Regina in quite a crushed tone. “I amtoofat.”

“Oh, I don’t know—you’re just comfortable.”

“No, Alfred, I’m too fat,” Regina reiterated with an air of firm conviction.

“Well, as to that,” said Alfred, slipping the letter into the letter-box, and wheeling round, still keeping hold of his wife’s arm, “I never did admire the ‘two-deal-board’ style of woman myself.”

Regina immediately decided in her own mind that the hussy was of the plump little partridge order.

“When I take hold of a lady’s arm,” continued Alfred, with the facetious air of a heavy father, “I like an arm that I can feel; I object to taking hold of a bone. No, no, my dear, you are not at all too fat,but I don’t think you ought to wear gowns, except purely for reasons of comfort, that tend to increase your apparent size.”

“But you don’t think it matters much?”

“I’m sure it does not matter very much.”

“Alfred, do you think that I am greatly altered?” She asked the question wistfully, as if the issue of life and death hung upon his reply.

“As a matter of fact,” said Alfred Whittaker, promptly, “I think you are the least altered of any woman I ever knew in my life. I see other women going to pieces in the most extraordinary manner. Now, Mrs. Chamberlain came into the office this morning. My goodness, what a wreck! Yellow as a guinea, her face lined all over—she made me think of a mummy.”

“Yet she is younger than I am,” said Regina.

“Oh, years—they have nothing to do with the case. You have been a happy woman, a prosperous woman, a healthy woman; there has been nothing in your life to seam your face with lines and generally stamp you with all the worry that is too plainly visible on poor Mrs. Chamberlain’s features. Well, here we are, and here is Julia skipping across the road.”

As the words left his lips a slim young figure in white emerged from the rustic gate that gave entrance and egress to the house of Marksby. They stood until Julia came running across the road.

“Have you two dear things been out for an airing?” she exclaimed as she reached the foot-path.

“No, only to the post-box,” said Regina.

“Mother dear,” said Julia, “you look exactly as if you were walking about in your nightgown—a very voluminous and sublimated nightgown, but a nightgown all the same.”

For a moment Regina was too dashed to speak. The thought came fluttering through her mind, and seemed to fall to the floor of her heart with a great crash, that surely it was hopeless for her ever to try to win back Alfred from the hussy by personal means. Evidently she was hopelessly out of it as regards all questions of dress and the toilette.

“Of course,” she hastened to reply, for she did not wish Julia to think that she was annoyed by her criticism, “it really is a bedroom garment. I put it on because I was so hot to-day, and in this little country sort of place I thought going to the post in it would not matter, and—we—we did not meet anyone, did we, Alfred?”

“It would not have mattered if you had,” said Julia; “what you wear is a matter for your own consideration. But it does look like a nightgown.”

“And your mother,” said Alfred, “looks better in a sort of glorified nightgown than most women do in their best frocks. And now don’t you think we had better go off to bed? You will have the least as ever was, dear?”

Regina’s face broke into a smile. “The least as ever was,” she replied. So the two went into the dining-room, where, as usual, the refreshment tray was set out upon the table. Julia, with a laughingdeclaration that she did not want even the least as ever was, went gayly upstairs to her bedroom.

“I shall be very glad to get away,” said Alfred, sitting on the edge of the oaken dining-table and holding his whisky-and-soda up to the light. “I want a change badly this year. We are not as young as we were, Queenie; I’ve taken a lot out of myself lately.”

“You’ve been so busy.”

“Yes, we’ve never had such a good year in business as the last one, but there’s something wrong with Chamberlain.”

“How wrong?”

“I don’t know, I can’t make it out. Whether there’s a screw loose at home, or whether his wife’s health is worrying him, I don’t know.”

“Does she own to being ill?”

“No, never. This morning I quite offended her by telling her that she did not look very well.”

“And they are not going away till September?”

“No, she has just come back.”

“She has been to the sea?”

“Yes.”

“Then she came up specially for Maudie’s wedding?”

“I suppose so. I did not know she had been away till Chamberlain told me this morning. He seems dull and gloomy—ah, there’s a screw loose there, but I don’t know just where it is. Anyway, I know I want my holiday very badly this year and glad I shall be when we have packed up and are off for La Belle France.”

“And I,” said Regina, with a sigh which, though quickly suppressed, was full of meaning. Somehow, she could not sleep that night; during the day some of her most cherished ideals had been ruthlessly torn up by the roots. Never in all her life before had she had even so much as a suspicion of her noble Alfred’s matrimonial integrity, and she had come to see flaws in her own life and rents in her own robes. Indeed, had she not been, as it were, aroused out of sleep, the regeneration of women had been like to cost her very dear. But, God be thanked! she had been awakened in time, and in future she would leave the great question of womanhood to look after itself, and she would devote her time and thought and the use of her astute brain to regaining her husband’s love. “Think,” her thoughts ran, “think—Maudie is married, Julia is young and beautiful, and fascinating to the opposite sex, you cannot hope to keep her long in the home nest; think what your life would be living alone with a husband whose heart was wholly gone from you.”

There is occasionally a time in our life which proves a veritable oasis in a desert of doubt and suspicion.

During the month which they spent in the fascinating little town on the northern coast, Regina lived a verydolce far nientekind of life. Her anxieties as to the hussy were, for a time, lulled to sleep. They stayed at a comfortable hotel on the front, had rooms overlooking that wonderful stretch of sea which is one of the great charms of Dieppe, and they did themselves remarkably well; that is to say, they went without nothing that would give them pleasure. As soon as they arrived and were settled down, Alfred Whittaker went to the extravagance of engaging a motor car for their exclusive use during their stay. It was a very comfortable car, and held six persons in addition to the chauffeur, and almost every day they made excursions into the green heart of the quiet country, lunching at some snug French hostelry on homely but delicious fare. Personally, I have always thought that one of the chief reasons why art and sentiment nourish and thrive apace in sunny France is because the people live upon food so muchless gross than is the case with ourselves. In the poorest little inn on the other side of the Channel one is always sure of an excellent soup, a delicious omelette, bread and butter that are beyond reproach, and a sound and excellent drink, be it of red wine or only of homely cider. To Regina, the freedom from household cares, which she detested, and from all questions of orderings and caterings, made this quite the most charming holiday of her whole life. She was happy, too, that Julia was happy, that Julia made many friends of her own age and condition, that she, as the phrase goes, danced her feet off four nights a week, and was able to enter with zest and enjoyment into the young life of the place. As for Alfred Whittaker himself, he so thoroughly enjoyed the rest and change, seemed so happy and contented with himself and everything around him, that sometimes Regina caught herself wondering if she had been entirely mistaken in imagining that there was, after all, a hussy in the background. He was loud in his expressions of satisfaction in the new ground which they had broken. How they ever came to go year after year to a dull English watering-place, and never thought of coming abroad, was really beyond him.

“But we have been abroad,” said Regina.

“Yes, for a trip, for a fortnight in Paris, for tours in different parts of Europe; there’s no rest in that kind of thing, it is an excitement, an opening of one’s mind—quite different to this,” he rejoined. “It’s very improving to one’s mind to go up the Rhine in a steamer, and go round all the sights of Cologne; to gaze at Ehrenbreitstein, and wonder whether it reallyis like Gibraltar or not; to feed the carp at Frankfort; to gaze at the falls at Schaffhausen; but it is not restful, it is not really a holiday. It is a nice fillip for a placid, blank or uneventful life, but for a man overdone with the stress of business, give me this. Restful without being dull, interesting without being overwhelming, and bright and gay without being fagging.”

“You are always so sensible,” said Regina. She felt at that moment that the hussy was farther away than ever. Yet, a little later, when she and Alfred were taking a stroll down the Grande Rue, it being market morning, and therefore unusually interesting, she was reminded of the skeleton in her cupboard as sharply and unexpectedly as the jerk with which the proverbial bird, tied by a string to the leg, is stopped in its peregrinations. As a rule on market morning the world promenades in the middle of the street, in the actual roadway, but it happened on this occasion that Alfred and Regina met a carriage and pair coming slowly between the market people squalling on the edge of the pavement. To avoid the carriage they stepped on to thetrottoir, and this brought them under the awning of a jeweler’s shop.

“I think I ought to buy you a present,” said Alfred, “for I won last night.”

“Did you? You never told me.”

“I didn’t think of it. I was so sleepy I was glad to tumble into bed and forget everything,” Alfred replied. “I only had five louis in my pocket when I went into the Casino, and this morning I find that I have twenty-five. Now, twenty louis is sixteen pounds.If I keep it I shall lose it all back to the tables again, whether it is at the fascinating little horses or the more fascinating green cloth in the Grand Cercle. Come, what would you like? Here’s a jeweler’s shop; there are sixteen good English pounds lying at your feet, make your choice.”

“In francs?” asked Regina.

“In francs—well, in francs it’s four hundred. Now, there’s a ring, I call that a very good bargain for four hundred francs—there’s something for your money, there’s body in it.” He pointed to a large and deep-colored sapphire set in a circle of diamonds. Regina saw that the ring was beautiful, but, womanlike, her eyes wandered to the other gewgaws displayed in the window.

“I have a good many rings,” she said hesitatingly. Then her eyes fell upon a thick gold curb bracelet clasped by a horse-shoe of diamonds.

“This is handsome,” she said. Her voice was quite faint, for she felt that she was approaching that subject which had troubled her so much.

“Oh, horrid!” said he. “I love to see you with plenty of rings, but as to bracelets—I can’t endure them.”

“Never?” said Regina. “Never?”

“No, I never buy a bracelet for anybody. I like to give you something that you can wear for weeks or years together. Bracelets always seem in the way, they don’t set off a pretty wrist, and they draw attention to an ugly one. Besides, they are intensely disagreeable if you happen to put your arm around myneck. Come, let us go inside and see how the sapphire suits your hand.”

He led the way into the shop, as a man always does when he is going to buy something for a woman. Have you ever noticed, my reader, how the most polite of men, who stands aside on all occasions for the lady to precede him, marches into a shop right in front of her when he is going to make her a present?

Now, Alfred Whittaker’s knowledge of French was what may be described as infinitesimal, and it being his habit to state his business whenever he entered a shop of any kind, he did not wait for Regina’s faulty but more understandable explanations.

“Vous-avez un ring la,” pointing with a sturdy British thumb toward the window, “sappheer.”

“Ah, ah, une broche, monsieur?”

“Regina, what does she mean by that?”

Now, for the life of her Regina could not think of the French word for ring.

“She means ‘brooch’ of course,” she replied. “I really don’t know what ring is in French.”

“Pas une broche?” the lady of the establishment demanded.

“No, not a brooch,” Alfred Whittaker shouted at her, as if her understanding lay at the back of deaf ears.

“Un bracelet, peut-etre?” the Frenchwoman asked, touching her wrist with a gesture that conveyed more than her words.

“No, no,” said Alfred, tapping his first finger.

“Ah, ah, une bague.” She quickly opened the window and brought out several sapphire rings, includingthe one which had taken Alfred’s fancy, and then, as he had already, being a business man, grasped the initial weakness of the Norman character, there began a period of haggling which Alfred Whittaker would never have thought of employing in the case of the establishment of Templeton. Eventually Regina left the shop with the beautiful sapphire ring upon her finger.

“My dear girl,” said Alfred (he always called her his dear girl when he was best pleased), “eighteen pounds for a ring like that is dirt cheap She said it was an occasion, what did she mean by ‘an occasion’?”

“I haven’t the least idea, but she certainly said it.”

“However, no matter what she may have meant, the ring is given away at the price—it’s worth thirty pounds if it’s worth a penny. You found it, so to speak, for I won the money that paid for it.”

“Not quite all.”

“No, not quite all, but the other was a mere bagatelle. I like to see you with plenty of rings; some women have not the hands to show them off.”

It occurred to Regina that the hussy’s hands were of the kind that look best in gloves. Then a second thought came, one of blame and reproach to herself for even thinking of the hussy at such a moment when Alfred had generously been thinking only of her.

“It is a beautiful ring, dear Alfred,” she said, putting her hand under his arm and squeezing it very gratefully, “it is a beautiful ring and you are very good to me, and I’m not quite sure that I deserve it.”

She meant what she said. A curious idea had takenpossession of her that while Alfred was so kind and generous to her she ought not to inquire or wish to inquire into his outer life; there might be fifty explanations, and while she was evidently first with him it was her duty to remain content. It was wonderful how that little present, which, after all, had not cost Alfred Whittaker very much, soothed Regina’s suspicions and lulled them to sleep. And so, in perfect happiness and harmony, that month went by, and it was with genuine regret that they bade adieu to the town of many colors and turned their faces toward the duller tones of home.

“We will come back again next year,” said Regina, gazing sentimentally at the fast-receding shore, now looking most uninteresting. “Dear Dieppe, we have been so happy and had such a good time, we will come again next year.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Alfred Whittaker, in a tone of ludicrous jocosity, “I shouldn’t be surprised, for my part, if Darby and Joan found themselves at Dieppe by themselves. Just you and I, you know, Queenie.”

“Wherever you are, Alfred,” said she, leaning over the side of the ship and keeping her eyes carefully from observing the motion of the water, “wherever you are I am always perfectly happy and content.”

There is much more value in the many “cures” that we take nowadays than is at first apparent to the eye. One cannot take a cure for the renovation of any part of one’s body without, at the same time, renovating part of one’s mind.

The immediate effect of going home again was to make Regina more convinced than ever that the hussy had a very real and tangible existence. On the very first day Alfred made haste to catch the earlier of the two trains by which he had been in the habit of traveling to town. There was nothing in that circumstance—oh no. He had been away for a full month, and Regina’s opinion of her husband’s partner was but small. He had brought the bulk of the money into the firm, while Alfred had supplied the major part of the brains, and had, in fact, built up the business to its present flourishing state; so, of course, there was nothing in the actual circumstance that Alfred should hurry through his breakfast so as to catch the earlier train. He fussed and fumed a little, too, and let fall a word to the effect that he knew he should find everything at sixes and sevens, and that he wanted to have one or two things settled before the Chamberlains went away for their autumn holiday. Regina too, on her side, was naturally extremely busy that morning. She had to look after her housekeeping, to lay in supplies,to hold consultations with each of her servants, and to look out a couple of dresses of slightly more solid material than those which she had worn at Dieppe—not that she needed them for warmth, for the weather was, as the weather so frequently is in September, mild even to sultriness. The sun and the sea air had made the gowns which Regina had taken to Dieppe appear to her worn and shabby, and she therefore would have to fall back upon a couple of spring gowns until she could get her new autumn clothes, the clothes with which she was to win back Alfred. Now, the hussy had been for some time far from Regina’s thoughts, her suspicions had been lulled to rest, not only by Alfred’s devotion, but by his naturalness of demeanor. In a sort of gush of tenderness toward him she almost determined that she would do nothing to regain his allegiance; she would only be herself. Then her tidy eye fell upon a piece of paper lying on the carpet between Alfred’s chair and the door. She went across the room and picked it up, following the house-wifely instinct which moves nine women out of ten, and glanced at it to see whether it was something to keep or something to throw away. It was only a folded sheet of paper on which was written in a woman’s handwriting, 27 Terrisina Road, St. John’s Wood, N. W. For a moment Regina was almost too stunned to speak; she stared at the paper. Luckily, Julia had already gone down to that part of the Park called the town to get some flowers with which to deck the house. All the doubts and suspicions of the past came back in great waves, and broke cruelly upon Regina’s palpitatingheart. There was a hussy! This had been written by the hussy! This was where the hussy dwelt, 27 Terrisina Road, St. John’s Wood, N. W. It was far removed from the side of London on which the Park was situate; he had laid his plans carefully and well—or she had. Well, 27 Terrisina Road should not get him or keep him without a struggle; it should be war to the knife. Doubtless this was a little soft-eyed creature young enough to be Regina’s child. But Regina would be soft-eyed, Regina would rejuvenate herself, Regina would win all along the line. It was in this spirit that Regina went upstairs and examined her wardrobe. She would leave the house to take care of itself, merely throwing out a few hints as to dinner, and betake herself to town in order to consult the specialists whom she had had in her mind during the last month. She picked out the smartest of the frocks which she had not taken away with her, and, casting off her white cambric wrapper in which she had breakfasted, she began to dress herself with feverishly eager fingers.

Alack and alas! The effect of careering through the fresh country air, tinged as it was with the brine of the ocean, had been to make Regina thoroughly enjoy the lunches by the wayside, and the more elaborate dinners of the evening hour. We all know the effect of good French soup, various kinds of omelettes, in short, of excellent bourgeois cooking, and this effect had stolen upon Regina like a thief in the night, and neither by coaxing nor force could she get herself into the garment in which she desired to travel to town.

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed in a tone of anxiety, “I must have put on stones while I have been away. The old proverb says ‘Laugh and grow fat,’ and I take it that laughter and happiness have the same effect if one has a tendency that way. What shall I do?”

There was only one thing to be done, and that was to get into one of the despised and discarded gowns in which she had loomed large and important on the French horizon, and take herself in quest of new ones as quickly as possible. Then she remembered that she had sent a little message on the wings of unanimity, a little message which had been signed, “Your broken-hearted Miranda.” Surely by now there would be a reply to it. She finished her toilette, hiding as much of her gown as she could by the addition of a large lace cape which she had bought as a bargain in the little French town where she had been so happy, and then she went downstairs and sought for the back numbers of the ladies’ periodical to which she had written. They were in their accustomed place, the four numbers which she had not yet seen. She began with the last. “Faded Iras,” “White Heather,” “White Rose,” “Pussy Cat,” were the first words which met her eyes. There was no “Broken-hearted Miranda,” and she went on to the next number, and there, at the top of the column, was the name she was seeking.

“My poor broken-hearted Miranda,” the reply ran, “how grieved and sorry I am for you! Are you sure that your conjectures are correct? I have known wives who made themselves very unhappy on verysmall grounds—not that I wish to imply that your grounds for uneasiness are small, but are you quite sure? If I were you I would take every means of finding out. With regard to what you tell me of yourself, I can see you, my poor Miranda, in my mind’s eye, and I hasten to assure you that, whether you are right or wrong, you will not regret taking yourself in hand in the beauty sense. For your adipose tissue, I would recommend you to try Madame Winifred Polson’s little brown tablets. They are wonderful in their effect on stout figures, particularly in reducing bulk below the waist. If you begin them, be sure that you give them a very good trial, and that you carry out her instructions fully and to the very letter. Now, for your complexion, I can advise you no better than to go to Madame Alvara. You needn’t be the least nervous of going to her, as it is not a shop, but she has an elegant private house on the best side of Grosvenor Square. You will probably meet three duchesses on the stairs, and may have to wait some time, unless you make an appointment. Place yourself unreservedly in Madame Alvara’s hands; she will restore to you the skin of your childhood. For your hair—well, that is difficult. I think you ought to write to me again and tell me what kind of hair you have, whether it is thin or grey, that I may advise you whether to go to a hair specialist or an artiste intoupes. Write to me again, my dear Miranda, and pray believe that nothing is too much trouble if I have the reward of knowing that I have helped you to your legitimate end.”

Involuntarily Regina put up her hands and passedthem over her head. She had let her hair take care of itself—that did not mean that she was grey or that she had a mere whisp; she had thick and luxuriant hair, turned back from her face and done into a simple coil at the turn of the head.

“I will not write to-day,” she said to herself; “I will go and see the face specialist and the beauty specialist, and I will pay a visit to the lady of the little brown tablets, and then I will go to my tailor. Something I must have to wear every day. If I get a smart coat and skirt, something loose andchic, I can put off the rest of my wardrobe until I have got my figure down to its normal size.”

She went into the hall intending to leave a message with the cook for Julia, but the parlor-maid happened to be going through the dining-room to the pantry with a tray of silver things in her hands.

“Oh, Margaret, tell Miss Julia I shall, in all probability, not be in to lunch, and tell her not to wait for me. She will be occupied during the rest of the day.”

“Very good, ma’am.”

Then Regina sailed down the covered way and got into the omnibus which would carry her to the railway station. What a day of disappointments it was! She found the beauty specialist had not yet returned to town, and there was nobody to take her place. Not that she was unceremoniously told this at the door—oh no; she was shown into a room, and the great lady’s secretary informed her that Madame Alvara had been very unwell—she had had such a terribly heavy season—carriages standing a dozen deep at the door all daylong—everybody clamoring for Madame’s own opinion—and she was so popular, socially.

“Madame will not be back until the end of the month; I can make an appointment for the first week in October.”

“Can you recommend me any harmless lotion to begin with?” said Regina.

“Oh no, I should not dare to interfere in Madame’s province; I am only the secretary; I arrange appointments, and so on.”

“But you have a skin like a rose leaf,” said Regina, wistfully.

“Yes, I have to thank Madame Alvara for that. You see, if I were to give you my recipe you might ruin your skin. Oh, every case has quite individual attention and treatment. The staff only work under Madame Alvara’s directions. Yes, they are busy, fairly busy, continuing the treatment of cases which were begun last season. No new cases will be taken till Madame Alvara returns.”

So Regina had no choice but to make an appointment for the 5th of October, that being the first hour which could be placed at her disposal. She then went off, after disappointment one, to Madame Winifred Polson. She had difficulty in finding the place, and when she did find it, it did not commend itself to her ideas of shrewd common-sense. However, she left a couple of guineas behind her and brought away instead a little box of something which rattled. Then she went and had some lunch—not tea and muffins this time, but a good hot lunch at a famous drapery establishment which she frequently patronized.After that she made some purchases, and then she went in search of an establishment whose advertisements she had noticed in a ladies’ paper which she had taken up while waiting for her lunch to be served. “To Ladies,” it said. “If you have no lady’s maid you cannot possibly care for your own hair as the glory of womanhood should be cared for. Go and consult the ladies who run The Dressing-Room. You can have special treatment for hair that is not quite in health, special brushings for hair that merely needs attention, and can consult with experts as to the most becoming way of wearing your hair.”

“That is the place for me,” said Regina, taking note of the address. And so, after paying her two guineas to Madame Polson, she next turned her steps toward the street wherein she should find The Dressing-Room.

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