BLUE skies and shining sun, but far down on the horizon one dark cloud gathers and drifts slowly upwards unobserved. Frank Crosse was aware of its shadow when coming down to breakfast he saw an envelope with a well-remembered handwriting beside his plate. How he had loved that writing once, how his heart had warmed and quickened at the sight of it, how eagerly he had read it—and now a viper coiled upon the white table-cloth would hardly have given him a greater shock. Contradictory, incalculable, whimsical life! A year ago how scornfully he would have laughed, what contemptuous unbelief would have filled his soul, if he had been told that any letter of hers could have struck him cold with the vague apprehension of coming misfortune. He tore off the envelope and threw it into the fire. But before he could glance at the letter there was the quick patter of his wife’s feet upon the stair, and she burst, full of girlish health and high spirits, into the little room. She wore a pink crepon dressing-gown, with cream guipure lace at the neck and wrists. Pink ribbon outlined her trim waist. The morning sun shone upon her, and she seemed to him to be the daintiest, sweetest tiling upon earth. He had thrust his letter into his pocket as she entered. ‘You will excuse the dressing-gown, Frank.’ ‘I just love you in it. No, you mustn’t pass. Now you can go.’ ‘I was so afraid that you would breakfast without me that I had no time to dress. I shall have the whole day to finish in when you are gone. There now—Jemima has forgotten to warm the plates again! And your coffee is cold. I wish you had not waited.’ ‘Better cold coffee with Maude’s society.’ ‘I always thought men gave up complimenting their wives after they married them. I am so glad you don’t. I think on the whole that women’s ideas of men are unfair and severe. The reason is that the women who have met unpleasant men run about and make a noise, but the women who are happy just keep quiet and enjoy themselves. For example, I have not time to write a book explaining to every one how nice Frank Crosse is; but if he were nasty my life would be empty, and so of course I should write my book.’ ‘I feel such a fraud when you talk like that.’ ‘That is part of your niceness.’ ‘Oh don’t, Maude! It really hurts me.’ ‘Why, Frank, what is the matter with you to-day?’ ‘Nothing, dear.’ ‘Oh yes, there is. I can tell easily.’ ‘Perhaps I am not quite myself.’ ‘No, I am sure that you are not. I believe that you have a cold coming on. O Frank, do take some ammoniated quinine.’ ‘Good heavens, no!’ ‘Please! Please!’ ‘My dear girlie, there is nothing the matter with me.’ ‘But it is such splendid stuff.’ ‘Yes, I know. But really I don’t want it.’ ‘Have you had any letters, Frank?’ ‘Yes, one.’ ‘Anything important?’ ‘I have hardly glanced at it yet.’ ‘Glance at it now.’ ‘Oh, I will keep it for the train. Good-bye, dearest. It is time that I was off.’