It was in this mood of mind that she met her husband when he returned in the afternoon from his office. Happily for them, he was in a quiet, non-resistant state, and in a special good-humor with himself and the world. Professional matters had shaped themselves to his wishes, and left his mind at peace. Irene had, in consequence, everything pretty much her own way. Hartley did not fail to notice a certain sharpness of manner about her, and a certain spiciness of sentiment when the subject of their intermittent talks verged on themes relating to women; but he felt no inclination whatever for argument or opposition, and so her arrows struck a polished shield, and went gracefully and harmlessly aside. "Shall we go and have a merry laugh with Matthews to-night?" said Hartley, as they sat at the tea-table. "I feel just in the humor." "No, I thank you," replied Irene, curtly. "I don't incline to the laughing mood, just now." "Laughing is contagious," suggested Hartley. "I shall not take the infection to-night." And she balanced her little head with the perpendicularity of a plumb-line. "Can't I persuade you?" He was in a real good-humor, and smiled as he said this. "No, sir. You may waive both argument and persuasion. I am in earnest." "And when a woman is in earnest you might as well essay to move the Pillars of Hercules." "You might as well in my case," answered Irene, without any softening of tone or features. "Then I shall not attempt, after a hard day's work, a task so difficult. I am in a mood for rest and quiet," said the young husband. "Perhaps," he resumed, after a little pause, "you may feel somewhat musical. There is to be a vocal and instrumental concert to-night. What say you to going there? I think I could enjoy some good singing, mightily." Irene closed her lips firmly, and shook her head. "Not musically inclined this evening?" "No," she replied. "Got a regular stay-at-home feeling?" "Yes." "Enough," said Hartley, with unshadowed good-humor, "we will stay at home." And he sung a snatch of the familiar song--"There's no place like home," rising, as he did so, from the table, and offering Irene his arm. She could do no less than accept the courtesy, and so they went up to their cozy sitting-room arm-in-arm--he chatty, and she almost silent. "What's the matter, petty?" he asked, in a fond way, after trying for some time, but in vain, to draw her out into pleasant conversation. "Ain't you well to-night?" Now, so far as her bodily state was concerned, Irene never felt better in her life. So she could not plead indisposition. "I feel well," she replied, glancing up into her husband's face in a cold, embarrassed kind of way. "Then your looks belie your condition--that's all. If it isn't the body, it must be the mind. What's gone wrong, darling?"