It is one thing to have your wife let another man make love to her--for a legitimate purpose--and quite another to overhear the burning declarations. I had to play the fainting gag again, in order to send you after water, and--do the best I could--my husband would not run when he heard your returning step. I was in mortal fear that he would kill you and only by the best diplomacy of which I was mistress did I send him away. Even then he had not finished. I went into your room at midnight, do you recollect? to keep him from entering there. Not altogether to save you from injury--though I would have done that, too--but for fear of the legal entanglements into which his rashness might bring him. And in the morning you sent me that sweet letter of apology! Whenever I get the blues I shall only have to take that out and read it. It was so funny! I am afraid you are getting tired of this story, but you might as well have it all. It will cure your complaint called "love," that you have had so severely, if anything will, and that ought to be one comfort. My husband was on the steamer with us when we left St. Croix, and--where, do you suppose? In the stateroom with his wife, where a true man should be, of course. I smuggled him in there and kept him hid till we reached Barbados, if you please. But the night you and I stayed at Martinique, I had a terrible fear that he would come ashore and do something silly. He kept insisting that he had an account which he must settle, sooner or later, with you. So, if you remember, I went into your bedroom and stayed all night, for I knew he would trust me, and that he would not try to touch you in my presence. In the morning you took me back to the steamer, as I had intended you should; and that night and the next I slept again in the arms I love. It was he who was prowling around the Hotel des Bains, who played the part of mice and ghosts. Disguised so that no one on the Pretoria recognized him he made his way to land and back again. It wasn't a bad trick, considering. At Barbados I made him go to the Sea View Hotel instead of the Marine, though with the greatest difficulty. He is so hard to manage when he sets his mind on anything. It was distinctly foolish for him to be seen walking the street with Wesson, for you need never have known he had gone further down the islands than St. Croix. Then why should he come to the Marine in broad daylight, and get into that row, that nearly spilled all the milk? I love the man, I tell you, but I must criticise such conduct.