"Oh, stop your fooling!" said my Husband. "What I came in here to talk to you about was Miss Woltor." "'Woltor' or 'Stoltor'?" I questioned. "Who said 'Stoltor'?" jerked my Husband. "Oh, sometimes you say 'Woltor' and sometimes you say 'Stoltor'!" I confided. "And it's so confusing. Which is it--really?" "Hanged if I know!" said my Husband. "Then let's call her Ann," I suggested. With an impulse that was quite unwonted in him my Husband stepped suddenly forward to my biggest, rosiest, most perfect pot of pink hyacinths, and snapping a succulent stem in two thrust the great gorgeous bloom incongruously into his button-hole. Never in fifteen years had I seen my Husband with a flower in his button-hole. Neither, in all that time, had I ever seen him flush across the cheek-bones just exactly the shade of a rose-pink Hyacinth. I could have hugged him! He looked so confused. "Oh, I say--" he ventured quite abruptly, "Miss Woltor and I, you know,--we never went near the dentist yesterday!" "So I inferred," I said, "from Rollins's observation. What _were_ you doing?" Truly I didn't mean to ask, but the long-suppressed wonder most certainly slipped. "Why we were just arguing!" groaned my Husband. "Round and round and round!" "Round--what?" I questioned--now that the slipping had started. "Round and round the country?" "Country, no indeed!" grinned my Husband unhappily. "We never left the place!" "Never--left the place?" I stammered. "Why, where in Creation were you?" "Why, first," said my Husband, "we were down at the end of the driveway right there by the acacia trees, you know. She was crying so I didn't exactly like to strike the state highway for fear somebody would notice her. And then afterward--when I saw that she really couldn't stop----" "Crying?" I puzzled. "Ann Woltor--crying?" "And then afterward," persisted my Husband, "we went over to the Bungalow on the Rock and commenced the argument all over again! Fortunately there was some tea there and crackers and sardines and enough firewood. But it was the devil and all getting over! We ran the car into the boat-house and took the punt! I thought the surf would smash us, but----" "But what was the 'argument'?" I questioned. "Why about her coming back!" said my Husband. "She was so absolutely determined not to come back! I never in my life saw such stubbornness! And if she once got away I knew perfectly well that she never would come back! That she'd drop out of sight just as--And such crying!" he interrupted himself with apparent irrelevance. "Everything smashed up altogether at once!--Hadn't cried before, she said, for eight years!" "Well, it's time she cried, the poor dear!" I affirmed sincerely. "But----" "But I couldn't bring her back to the house!" insisted my Husband. "Not crying so, not arguing so!" "No, of course not," I agreed. "I kept thinking she'd stop!" shivered my Husband. "Jack," I asked quite abruptly, "Who is Ann Woltor?"