A comic opera singer sat beside the hostess. The dentist, assuming that I knew the situation, asked me, _sotto voce_, how long I thought it would be before "papa took a tumble to himself." When I confessed my inability to follow him, he proceeded to enlighten me. The hostess was infatuated with the singer, who was as poor as Job's turkey, and while her protector was absent--(he was married and had several grown children)--the lady consoled herself with song. This easy, matter-of-fact way in which these topics were discussed, the utter lack of restraint between the sexes, no longer shocked me. I was on the point of asking my purveyor of illicit news whether he could tell me who Alice was; instead, I turned to the bored man at my right, and by degrees I got him to tell me of his ambitions, his work and his ideas of life. I found we had much in common. While we were talking, there was a noisy argument going on at the other end of the table. "I wouldn't stand it for one minute!" rang out the voice of our hostess, and I saw her shoot a meaning glance at the singer. "Ask an actor's wife! Ask Mrs. Hartley!" bellowed the host. "Mrs. Hartley?" "Yes?" I responded, not knowing the subject of conversation. "Pardon me for interrupting so interesting a conversation, won't you, Calhoun," he said, addressing my sculptor friend with exaggerated courtesy. "I'll give her back to you in a minute.... Mrs. Hartley, the ladies want to know how it feels to watch your husband make love to another woman?" I caught Will's eye. At another time I should have been embarrassed. To-night, however, I felt a strange self-control. "Oh dear, what an old chestnut!" I answered flippantly. "I believe that's the nine hundred and ninety-ninth time I've answered that question this season." I noticed that my voice took on a bored tone. "Well, tell us!" urged mine host. "To tell the truth," I began, "I never give it a thought." Will's eyes twinkled; he was seated at the far end of the table between two stall-feds. "It's a part of the business," I continued, "just as dictating to his typewriter is a part of the routine of a business man. Does every wife suspect her husband's stenographer?" "Yes! yes!" came the chorus from the curvilinear gentlemen at the other end of the table. I shrugged my shoulders. "Very well, then, it seems to me, since you gentlemen won't behave, that it is up to the women to see that you do!" I sat down. I felt ashamed of my vulgarity. Our host suggested a toast and scrambled to his feet. "Here's to our wives and sweethearts--may they never meet!" There was more laughter. The dentist murmured something about moss-grown jokes, and the hostess asked why husbands and lovers were excluded. I felt my mouth drawing down at the corners, and I buried my lips in the American Beauty rose the sculptor had purloined from the centre-piece.