And now here was Sicard Avenue, again, dear old Sicard, with its fine line of trees on either side of its broad roadway, and their own big house set among elms and with that French garden in front—so quiet and aristocratic! Why couldn’t she be content with a place like this, with her present place in society? Why not? Why not be happy in it? She could be such an interesting social figure if she chose, if she would only try. But no, no—she wouldn’t. It would always be the same until—until— _The gardener had trimmed the grass again, and nicely!_ “No, suh, Mr. Garrison,” George was already saying in that sing-song darky way of his as he walked up the steps ahead of him, and just as he expected or feared he would. It was always the way, and always would be until he had courage enough to leave once and for all—as he would to-day, by George! He wouldn’t stand for this one moment longer—not one. “Mrs. Garrison she say she done gone to Mrs. Gildas’” (it might just as well have been the Bodines, the Del Guardias or the Cranes—they were all alike), “an’ dat yo’ was to call her up dere when yo’ come in or come out. She say to say she lef’ a note fo’ yo’ on yo’ dresser.” Curse her! Curse her! Curse her! To be treated like this all the time! He would fix her now, though, this time! Yes, he would. This time he wouldn’t change his mind. _And the brass on the front door not properly cleaned, either!_ “George,” this to his servant as the latter preceded him into his room—their room—where he always so loved to be when things were well between them, “never mind the bags now. I’ll call you later when I want you,” and then, as the door closed, almost glaring at everything about him. There in the mirror, just above his military brushes, was stuck a note—the usual wheedling, chaffering rot she was inclined to write him when she wanted to be very nice on such occasions as this. Now he would see what new lying, fooling communication she had left for him, where he would be asked to come now, what do, instead of her being here to receive him as she had promised, as was her duty really, as any decent married woman would—as any decent married man would expect her to be. Oh, the devil! _That fly buzzing in the window there, trying to get out!_ What was the use of being alive, anyway? What the good of anything—money or anything else? He wouldn’t stand for this any longer, he couldn’t—no, he couldn’t, that was all there was to it! She could go to the devil now; he wouldn’t follow her any more—never, never, never!—the blank-blank-blank-blank——! This was the end! This was the way she was always doing! But never again now, not once more! He’d get a divorce now! Now, by George, for once he would stand his ground and be a man, not a social door-mat, a humble beggar of love, hanging around hat in hand waiting for her favors! Never again, by God! Never!! Never!!! Only— _That letter of hers on the dresser there waiting for him, as usual!_