Throughout the sleepless night following the innocent little scene she had interrupted in the studio, this somewhat civilized young person was led by her uncivilized emotions into depths she had not dreamed of. She saw herself accepting, so happy to accept, whatever portion her lord would grant her, only if he kept her near. Many a wife, she knew, had learned to adjust herself to a husband's past not only, but to his present as well, shutting her eyes to what she must not see, forgiving what was unforgivable because unable to keep her little share of the world without forgiving.

Oh, what a chance she had missed! Another was now helping him in his work, reviving his waning ambition, filling a place in his dreary, disappointing, existence and the place was hers, his wife's. She had lost it, and it was her fault, not his. She had allowed herself to become a "cunning little thing," a doll, an expensive plaything; he was tired of this plaything and now wanted another. "When a woman ceases to be a luxury to a man she becomes a nuisance-unless by that time she has made herself a necessity." Those words, scarcely heeded at the time came back to her now, and by an ironic coincidence they had been uttered that morning by Muriel!

Well, by dawn the paroxysm had passed, as paroxysms have a way of doing in many a little apartment, with the yet new looking wedding presents innocently waiting to be dusted. With the clear daylight she looked the matter in the face to see what could be done about it. She would not mope and moan and break her heart. She was not that sort. There was plenty of latent spirit in this girl. Nothing had ever happened to bring it out. Few women are loafers by nature, as are so many men. Women have never had a chance to loaf until modern times, and it is to be noted that even in their clubs they have not completely mastered the art. They must have programmes for improving their minds.

Since she could not do without him, she resolved to get him back. She knew that she could make a fuss, and he would do his duty, rather than hurt her. But she did not want duty. She wanted love.

How could she get that, with her little quiver-full of charms, all known, all worn,

matched with that opulent other! She knew how the very meretriciousness of Muriel's allure, so maddening to contemplate, appealed to men who had been kept too close to "the grind-stone by day and the hearthstone by night." Whether "the other" would deem it worth while to exercise her exotic arts did not occur to Molly. A wife always believes her husband worth whileperhaps because she found him so, just as she always thinks her husband particularly susceptible, for, again, had not she found him so?

First of all she would never let Fred know what she had gone through. For she was aware that there is nothing so ugly and disillusionizing as an exhibition of jealousy. That was why she stayed in her bedroom until after he had breakfasted and gone whistling to the studio, thinking perhaps of tea time. He would have seen her red eyes and perhaps have guessed the rest. He doubtless suspected her already.

She repressed another natural feminine impulse. She might easily make him jealous. She could flirt with the first available male she found, and her husband would come running back to put the poacher off. But she was not sure that this would keep him long from stealing away again to gaze at the forbidden fruit, perhaps to pluck it this time. Fred was quick as a woman in such matters; he might see through her device, and despise her for it. No, she wanted him to come back to her of his own accord, because he preferred her to all others. She wanted all or nothing. Then suddenly, thinking of Muriel, she achieved an inspiration. She would try Muriel's own receipt: Give him freedom, freedom to find out for himself, freedom to love his own wife, meanwhile getting back in touch with his work, becoming a vital part of his life, not a detached expense; a "necessity," not a mere "luxury." Well, here was work worthy of a woman's highest talents.

V

FRED had painted Muriel's portrait, and now that it was finished she remained to do his-in a story about monogamy. It began, "Some are born monogamous, some achieve monogamy, and some have monog amy thrust upon them." The second paragraph was like unto it: "But when a

man is polygamous by nature, monogamous by contract, and fascinating by temperaments there comes trouble when success arrive, with women in its train." Muriel was a genius.

Fred did not know that she was writing a story about him. But he was glad that Muriel did not leave him when the canvas was finished. She seemed to know a good deal about his trade and he needed some one to talk to about it, some woman, that is, because no man friend, even the most devoted, will listen so patiently as will even a casual woman friend, and this one happened to be an old friend of whom he had not seen much of late years since she became successful, far more successful as it happened than he was, despite her tribute

in her story about him. Maybe that was why he failed to recognize it when published.

Fred did not think much of her books, but he liked her looks, and said so. He thought her stories absurd and told her that, too. "You always write at the top of your voice when you write about men." But she did not seem absurd when she was with them, nor did she talk to Fred at the top of her voice in his studio. She knew a good deal about men. Men were her métier.

Poor Muriel, she was by nature what is sometimes called an idealist. She covered it up with a glittering shield of cynicism, perhaps to defend herself. Scratch a live cynic and you'll find a dead sentimentalist.

She said she was glad to be of use to him in his work. So they had talked chiefly about his work for a week or so as the portrait progressed. Then they talked about other interesting matters, such as themselves and each other.

Her assumption of superior knowledge of life he ignored or laughed at, harking back to the old days when she was a mere girl and he was a man. He still bullied herand that was what she liked. "As a matter of fact," he said, "you have never really 'lived,' though that, of course, is just what you think you have done. You have only experimented. You have never got into the procession. You have never become part of the fabric of life. You have only looked on.' "And you have found the real thing? Is that your point?"

"My point is that you have missed it," he retorted, carefully choosing a brush from the little brown jug at his elbow.

"Well, it's interesting to look on at those who have found it. Is that why you have me around? You wish to do me good?" "It's because you're so good to look at," he replied simply.

"Well, keep on looking, if you think it will do you good."

"Oh, I will, I will," he bantered, "I'm not afraid."

"So I have heard you say," she answered, continuing to smile at him.

He stopped painting and looked up. "Dear me, Muriel, do you think you are tempting me?" he jeered at her.

"How can I when you are perfectly happy?" she answered after a pause.

He kept on painting.

"Do you know, I believe I could play the devil with you if I wanted to," she laughed delightfully, bending to look into his eyes. He was perfectly willing to let her think so, as long as he knew she was doing nothing of the sort. And if at times a certain well-known impulse arose, to follow where she led the old instinct for pursuit and capture, conquest and regret-he stopped short with the thought, "But I don't do that sort of thing any more." It was not because he did not want to-that high ideal of himself had crashed long ago-but because he had no right to. So he went on painting.

keep your self-respect," he said one day to Muriel in the light manner he tossed out serious things. "It's one of the few real satisfactions left us by civilization."

"The great art," gibed Muriel, "the real civilization is to do anything you want and yet keep your self-respect.

"That's all right," he retorted pointedly, "for any one whose capacity for self-deception is unlimited."

"Which corresponds," rejoined Muriel glibly, "with the capacity for conceiving and achieving great things. The trouble with you, Fred, is that there is a big man inside, only you won't let it out."

And Fred thought there was some truth in this. Most of us are convinced that there is a pretty big thing inside. And the joke of it is that we are generally right about it!

It was all rather silly and very attractive. She was very beautiful and somewhat naughty, and he was still quite young..

Molly's unexpected visit had put a new complexion upon all this. He was brought up short to a realization of things. He did not like to think, but he had to. Well, he supposed she would want him to give up his innocent fun. He wanted her to be happy, to have everything-only, why must it always be at the expense of something he wanted! The daily grind was beginning to tell. He loathed the work he was doing, the more so because he had proved himself worthy of better things. It was all right to sacrifice success, everything, for marriage, but suppose your marriage is not a success

then you haven't anything. His old notions of abstract morality had gone with his promise to love, and the organic need, strong in natures like his, for fun, sparkle, recklessness, was storming within him. Marriage seemed a bird-cage. He had been lured in by the bait of love, and now having devoured the bait, he found himself imprisoned for life, a heavy penalty for ignorance. He could only beat his wings against the bars and sigh for the freedom he had not valued.

But all unknown to him and Muriel, Molly who knew her husband well, and had taken Muriel's measure in a glance, had decided not to bar the cage door, but to fling it wide open. Sometimes it's not the cage, but merely the door that troubles

He spoke to Molly, briefly, jocularly, of Muriel's friendship. "You know we don't look at these things in the stupid way of some people."

"Of course not," said Molly blithely. “A man should feel he can have all the friends he wants. Muriel is wonderful. Cultivate her." Molly also cultivated her. Muriel smiled, thinking it to be a blind from which to watch the poaching.

But for a conventional little thing, Molly seemed to be throwing them together a great deal, and to be keeping most obligingly out of the way. "Fred hates to have me around," laughed Molly, "when he talks to women. Threesomes are always such a bore, don't you find them so?" Meanwhile she was telling Fred that he must see more of Muriel. "It will do you good," she urged with most engaging candor. "You have tried to be a stolid husband. The pose does not suit you, my dear. Let go and be yourself. 'Express your own individuality,' as Muriel calls it, 'live your own life.' Molly's gift of mimicry at this point made Fred blush, though why should he blush for Muriel?

999

This unexpected move was as puzzling to Muriel as it was disquieting to Fred. Molly was taking the matter out into the light, tearing off the mystery, the surreptitiousness. Would the charm go, too?

"Muriel is dying to take you on," said Molly to Fred. "She's so crazy about

men.'

"You little cat!" laughed Fred. "Don't be silly." He hated to be thought a "ladies' man." For a moment he felt the strange disrelish that he used to experience when as a boy his mother urged him to be "attentive" to the daughters of family friends. One invariably detested them. For Molly it was not always an easy part to play, with a smiling face and quick-beating heart. But she hoped and kept silent, trying to believe that if she lost him by freedom he was not worth winning otherwise. Meanwhile she was trying to insinuate herself into his work, gathering up the old threads of common interests, talking the old dear language, carefully studying the exhibitions, but keeping most of the time out of his studio.

"Fred, why don't you exhibit some of your recent illustrations in the fall when we come back?" she asked him.

Fred smiled. It was the "Why trouble your little head about it" expression. "Who wants to look at black-and-white?” he asked.

"Every one-at yours."

Again he smiled indulgently. Fond wives always overrated their husband's importIt was rather cunning. "All right," he said to dismiss the subject. "I'll ask Myers if he can give me a gallery."

ance.

"Why not MacPherson ?"

He smiled again. "You don't understand such matters, my dear; MacPherson wouldn't dream of taking me on.”

"He told me to-day that he would," Molly answered quietly.

"What! Have you-why, Molly!"

But though he did not like the thought of dainty little Molly's interviewing art dealers, he could not very well refuse to exhibit at MacPherson's! And he could not help being pleased, and told Molly so, while she glowed and was glad. This was not economic independence. It was better. It was the mutual dependence of common interest. Muriel could not have done that, gloated Molly. She would not have cared to. It was not to her interest to stay awake at night planning things to do for Fred. It was to a wife's. A wife stood or fell in the world beside her husband.

Oh, if she could only win back the place that she had lost! She saw now what might be done there, supplying the qualities he lacked, bringing out and guiding those he had, making herself indispensable to him, as he in turn was indispensable to her-something more substantial, this, than a pretty-colored rainbow. There was no longer a chasm between them-merely a woman. Muriel must be destroyed.

VI

THE spring passed, and Molly was making herself of use to her husband in other ways than about the studio, though he no longer objected to her helping him there.

As for Fred, he could not very well take advantage of his wife's trust in him. He did not believe in himself, particularly, but so long as she believed in him, there was nothing to do but behave himself. Molly knew now that she could make him give up Muriel, but she did not propose to have any self-sacrificing, and sighing for what might