"By George, if I came back late, wouldn't I catch it?" he said with some irritation, slipping into his evening clothes and looking critically at his rather subdued reflection in the glass. "Jim tells me I'm getting in a rut, middle-aged, showing the wear. Perhaps." He rubbed his hand over the wrinkled cheek and frowned. "I have gone off a bit--sedentary life--six years. It does settle you. Hello! quarter of seven. Very strange!" He slipped into a lilac dressing-gown which had been thrust upon him on his last birthday and wandered uneasily back into the dining-room. "Why doesn't she telephone?" he thought; "it's her own party, one of those infernal problem plays I abhor. I didn't want to go." The door opened and the maid entered. On the tray was a letter. "For me?" he said, surprised. "By messenger?" "Yes, sir." He signed the slip, glancing at the envelope. It was in his wife's handwriting. "Margaret!" he said suddenly. "Yes, sir." "The boy's waiting for an answer, isn't he?" "No, sir." He stood a moment in blank uneasiness, until, suddenly aware that she was waiting, he dismissed her with a curt: "Oh, very well." Then he remained by the table, looking at the envelope which he did not open, hearing the sound of the closing outer door and the passing of the maid down the hall. "Why didn't she telephone?" he said aloud slowly. He looked at the letter again. He had made no mistake. It was from his wife. "If she's gone off again on some whim," he said angrily, "by George, I won't stand for it." Then carelessly inserting a finger, he broke the cover and glanced hastily down the letter: My dear Jackie: When you have read this I shall have left you forever. Forget me and try to forgive. In the six years we have lived together, you have always been kind to me. But, Jack, there is something we cannot give or take away, and because some one has come who has won that, I am leaving you. I'm sorry, Jackie, I'm sorry. Irene. When he had read this once in unbelief, he read it immediately again, approaching the lamp, laying it on the table and pressing his fists against his temple, to concentrate all his mind. "It's a joke," he said, speaking aloud. He rose, stumbling a little and aiding himself with his arm, leaning against the wall, went into her room, and opened the drawer where her jewel case should be. It was gone. "Then it's true," he said solemnly. "It's ended. What am I to do?" He went to her wardrobe, looking at the vacant hooks, repeating: "What am I to do?" He went slowly back to the living-room to the desk by the lamp, where the hateful thing stared up at him. "What am I to do?" All at once he struck the desk with his fist and a cry burst from him: "Dishonored--I'm dishonored!" His head flushed hot, his breath came in short, panting rage. He struck the letter again and again, and then suddenly, frantically, began to rush back and forth, repeating: "Dishonored--dishonored!"