"Mavis," said my husband, with a hint of the old, ironic smile I had not seen in many weeks, and which immediately alienated me from him, "I'm afraid that we were both a little tired and over-wrought this morning. And for anything I said which may have offended you, I am quite ready to ask your pardon. However, it is, perhaps, just as well that I understand the way you feel about me. I am, admittedly then, a 'brute': and I have 'presumed' to criticize you, unfairly and without cause--or so you have said. Let that pass. The most important thing is that you are becoming bored with this solitary confinement, and it so happens that it is within my power to offer you more congenial companionship. I had a letter this morning from Wright Penny--you recall him, do you not? He is in Santiago, and proposes to come to Havana and run out to see us. If it is agreeable to you, I shall wire him to come on prepared to stay, and to return North with us when we go. Would you like that?" Seven times seven little devils entered into me then, and I clasped my hands on the table and made my eyes round with pleasure. "I would be delighted," I said, sincerely enough. "I liked Mr. Penny--what little I saw of him. And I am sure that he would be a congenial house-guest." "Our first," remarked Bill, with a wholly wicked grin. And I felt as if we had slipped back several months, to a time when enmity was the only possible thing between us, and our weeks of pleasant comradeship were the shadow of a dream. There must be, I thought, a very real antagonism for one another in our natures: for otherwise, so deep and unspoken a breach could not have been made in ten minutes of foolish anger. "Wright says," Bill continued, "that he hesitates to intrude upon our 'happy honeymoon hours.' A pretty alliteration. It is not necessary, I hope, to inform him of his mistake." "He may have eyes--" I suggested. "Being a poet," he objected, "he is probably myopic." I ignored this. "I must find him some pretty girls to play with," I said idly. "Mercedes," said Bill, "might fit the case." I was conscious of a sudden flare of anger. "Bobby Willard's little sister," I said, "seems more Mr. Penny's type. She is very gentle and lovely." "Meow?" said my husband, with a rising inflection. The bright color came to my cheeks. "Not at all," I said indignantly. "I like Mercedes Howell very much. But--" Bill raised an eyebrow, smiled at the glowing end of the cigarette in his hand and said nothing. He got up from the table and went toward the door. "Have Miss Willard out here by all means," he said, "but she's milk and water. For my own amusement, in my own humble opinion, Mercedes is more stimulating to the Tired Business Man." He stopped to light another cigarette. "Of course," he said, through the first breath of smoke, "Wright will naturally suspect you of match-making. All young, happily married women have that benign tendency."