Suddenly this effort ceased. She had struggled up against the pillows to call "Molly! Molly!" when she found that she could not call Molly. As if her head had been under water, the function of breathing battled, and surrendered. Then there befell her swiftly the most beatific instant that she had ever known. "I am tired out," she thought; "and I am going to sleep. I did not die, after all." She was aware of turning her face, as her head dropped back on her pillows, before she sank into ecstasy. The night was fair and cool. There was some wind, and the trees in the Park winced under a glittering frost. Avery noticed this as he hurried to Dr. Armstrong's. The leaves seemed to curl in a sensitive, womanish fashion, as if their feelings had been hurt before they received their death-stroke. "It is the third of November," he thought. His feet rang on the sidewalk sharply, and he ran up the long steps with his gloved hand held to his cheek. Physical pain always made him angry. He was irritable with Armstrong, who had none too good a temper himself; and the two men sparred a little before the dentist consented to remove the tooth. Avery was surprised to find how short and simple an affair this was. "I believe I 'll run into the Club," he observed as he put on his coat. "Better go home," replied the dentist. "No? Then I 'll go along with you." The two men started out in silence. Avery looked across at the wincing leaves on the trees of the Park. The tower of the Church of the Happy Saints showed black against the sky. The club was only around the corner, and he was glad of it, for the night felt unpleasantly cold to him; he shivered as he entered the hot, bright, luxurious place; it was heavy with tobacco; the click of billiard-balls and the clink of a glass sounded to his ear with a curious distinctness above the laughter and the chat with which the house seemed to rock and echo. Romer was there--Tom Romer; and he was uncommonly glad to see Avery. The two gentlemen, with Armstrong and another man, grouped upon a game of billiards. Romer proposed whist, but Armstrong said it was too late for whist. Avery did not say anything, and he played stupidly, and after a while asked to be excused, and got up to go home. "You 're looking fagged," observed Tom Romer, knocking the ashes from his cigar artistically. "You 're overworked. Most of you professional chaps are. Come yachting with me, on the Dream. We 're going to the Sound after ducks. Back in a week. Start at seven o'clock to-morrow morning. Stay and put up here, and get off with me. Oh! I forgot. You 're one of those married men." "Yes," replied Avery, with a consciousness of superior virtue. "I could n't go without saying good-by to my wife. I wouldn't think of it for a moment," he added loftily. "Give me a minute, Romer, to think it over, will you?"