GLADYS was desperately unhappy. She had got what she wanted, and that, unfortunately, is frequently what follows. The unscrupulous get much, but they lose more; and Gladys, who had won her heart’s desire, sitting in a beautifully furnished room before the photograph of the husband she adored, was weeping bitterly. From the first day of their marriage jars had arisen. He was hopelessly selfish about his personal comforts, but he had a certain tremendous code of honor of the sort that abhors a lie and connives at a betrayal. Gladys was given to frequent fibbing. He had been disgusted, and had not hidden it; she had been spiteful and pointedly malicious. Little bitter unspoken things rose up as their eyes met. Their honeymoon had not been a success. (An exacting woman and a selfish man should avoid honeymoons.) Their home-coming was scarcely more so. They were both very extravagant in different directions, and they had no patience for each other’s extravagances and no self-denial for their own; they were weak and obstinate over trifles. Gladys was extremely demonstrative and fond of talking; Jack cared very little for outward expressions of feeling, and preferred women who could hold their tongues. He was perfectly frank, and paid all his compliments to other women. Gladys lived on admiration, and if she could not get it from the man who ought to give it to her, she would try to draw it from the man who would. She found this very easy. A good many of her husband’s brother officers admired her, and one of them, a Major Kennedy, frequently told her so. She was crying bitterly now over a note that lay on her lap. It was an invitation to a dinner from Edith le Mentier to meet Major Kennedy. It mentioned her husband in a way that brought the angry color to her cheeks. She was beginning to understand, and the tears dried. She thought of what Major Kennedy had said of the way to treat husbands: “Give ’em a little wholesome indifference, and look round you; that’s the way to whistle ’em back!” After all, a woman might have a good deal of fun without any harm coming from it. Lots of married women did. Look at Edith le Mentier for instance—hateful thing! Yet no one could doubt that her husband was devoted to her—and other women’s husbands too! Her eyes flashed as she thought of Jack. She stamped her foot. “I’ll pay them both out!” she cried, and she accepted Edith le Mentier’s “delightful invitation.” Muriel called on Mrs. Hurstly later in the season. There was a moment’s silence as the two women met. The room so daintily and beautifully furnished seemed filled with memories. Their eyes were drawn together to the photograph of Jack Hurstly in uniform. It was a curious coincidence that he had given to his wife the very photograph Muriel had returned to him. It was the only copy. Muriel withdrew her hand and sat down with her back to the photograph.