gibson used to say that he would never marry, because no other woman could be half as nice as his own mother. then, of course, he broke his mother's heart by marrying a woman who was not nice at all.

he was a powerful fellow with a plain, square face, and a manner that was perfection to the people whom he liked. unfortunately they were very few. he did not like any of the ladies whom his mother wanted him to like, not even when they reproduced for him her gentle, delicate distinction.

the younger mrs. gibson had none of it. but she had ways with her, and a power that was said to reside supremely in her hands, her arms, and her hair. especially her hair (she was the large white and golden kind). it was long as a lasso and ample as a cloak. gibson loved her hair. the sight and the scent of it filled him with folly. he liked to braid and unbraid it, to lay his face against it, to plunge his hands through the coolness into the warmth of it.

it seemed to him to give out the splendor and vitality of her, to have a secret sympathy with the thought that stirred beneath it.

she had a trick, when she was thinking of caressing it, of winding and unwinding the little curls that sprang, aureolewise, above her temples. that was one [pg 60] of her ways, and it brought her hands and arms into play with stupendous effect.

he would sit opposite her a whole evening, watching it, dumb with excess of happiness.

it took him six months to find out that the trick he admired so much was a sign that his wife was bored to extinction.

"is there anything you want?" he said.

she laughed hysterically.

"you've only to say what you want, and i'll get it for you, if it can be got."

"it could be got all right," said she. "but i doubt whether you'd care very much to get it."

"what is it? tell me—tell me."

"well—you're very nice, my dear, i know. but before i married you i used—though you mightn't think it—to be received in society."

he took her back to it. he said he was a selfish brute to want to keep her to himself. that speech amused mrs. gibson immensely. she had a curious and capricious sense of humor. it made her very adaptable and tided them both over a sharp season of infelicity.

hitherto mrs. gibson had been merely bored. now she was seized with a malady of unrest. any other man but gibson would have been driven mad with her nerves.

"you're doing too much, you know," he said, soothing her. "you're tired."

she raised her eyebrows.

"oh, no," she said, "not tired."

he meditated.

"what you want," said he, "is a thorough change."

"my dear," said she, "i didn't know you were so clever." [pg 61]

"would you like me to take a cottage in the country?"

"a cottage? in the country?"

"well, of course, not too far from town. some place where i could run down for the week-ends."

"you couldn't," said she, "be running down oftener?"

"no," he said, "i'm afraid i couldn't just at present."

"don't you think it might be a trifle lonely?"

"you can have anyone you like to stay with you."

she smiled.

"and you really want to take it? this cottage?"

"yes."

"well, then," said she, "take it by all means, and lose no time."

he took it, and went down with her for the first week-end.

it was a tiny place. but some one had built a comfortable smoking-room at the back. it opened by glass doors into the garden.

one sunday evening they were sitting together in the smoking-room when she flung herself down on the floor beside him and laid her head on his knee. she seized his hand and drew it down to her.

"as you are going to leave me to-morrow," she said, "you can stroke my hair to-night."

he went down every week-end. and every week-end he found an improvement in his wife's health. when he complimented her upon her appearance, she told him she had been gardening. he took it as an excellent sign that she should be fond of gardening.

then one day gibson (who worked like ten horses to provide all the things that his wife wanted) got ill and was told to take a month off in the country.

that was in the middle of the week. he saw his [pg 62] doctor early in the evening and took the last train down. the cottage was several miles from the nearest telegraph office, so that he arrived before the wire that should have announced his coming.

a short cut from the station brought him to the back of the house through a little wood that screened it. the wood path led into his garden by a private gate which was always locked.

he climbed the gate and crossed the grass plot to the glass doors of the smoking-room. the lamps were lit there, and gibson, as he approached, could see his wife sitting in the low chair opposite his. his heart bounded at the sight of her. he was glad to think that she sat in his room when he was away. he walked quickly over the grass and stood at the glass doors looking in.

she was lying back in the low chair. in his chair, which a curtain had concealed from him until now, there sat a man he knew. he recognized the narrow shoulders and the head with the sleek brown hair, showing a little sallow patch of baldness at the back. from a certain tenseness in the man's attitude he knew that his gaze was fastened on the woman who faced them. her left arm was raised, its long, loose sleeve fell back and bared it. her fingers twisted and untwisted a little straying curl.

the man could bear it no longer. he jumped up and went to her. he knelt beside her. with one hand he seized her arm by the full white wrist and dragged it down and held it to his lips. the other hand smoothed back her hair into its place and held it there. his fine, nervous fingers sank through the deep, silky web to the white, sensitive skin. the woman threw back her head and closed her eyes, every nerve throbbing felinely under the caress she loved. [pg 63]

the man rose with an uneasy movement that brought him to the back of her chair. he stooped and whispered something. she flung up her arms and drew down his face to hers under the white arch they made.

gibson did nothing scandalous. he went round quietly to the front door and let himself in with his latch-key. when he entered the smoking-room he found his wife there alone. she stood on his hearth, and met him with hard eyes, desperate and defiant.

"what have you to say for yourself?" he said.

"everything," said she. "of course you will divorce me."

"will a separation not satisfy you?"

"no," she said, "it will not. if you haven't had proof enough i can give you more. or you can ask the servants."

he had always given her what she wanted. he gave it her now.