It was a garbled version of an argument I had used during a previous discussion on the propriety of second marriages. I had contended, with personal indifference, that to an impersonal entity, left alone in this vale of tears with no embarrassing family ties, and feeling no dread of complications in a future state of existence, a second marriage might prove both expedient and happy. This suggestion I had offered in entire innocence, as I might have distended a paper bag for a child to burst, fancying it would please Marion, as it usually did, to worry a weak argument to tatters; an operation which I enjoyed for the sake of seeing her eyes flash and the becoming color that mounted to her cheeks. But when, amid a torrent of tears, she accused me of being just like other men, and of planning to marry another wife, I was struck dumb with horror. It was painful enough to be brought face to face with the thought of her dying first, but to be branded as a probably faithless wretch was agony. I can try to justify myself for wrong-doing; I can resent the injustice of being blamed for actions that I refrain from; but when I suffer for deeds that I wouldn't do in the distant future I am staggered by improbable possibilities. Given the opportunity, might I not have caused the death of my great-great-grandfather? Consequently, I remained silent, guiltily silent, in appearance; and Marion no longer condemned second marriages--at least, she hadn't for some months--as a disgrace to civilization, her manner indicating sorrowful resignation to the inevitable. It is strange, but true, that I didn't know what was coming; and yet I thought I knew, too well. My wife had apparently told her aunt of my supposititious inclinations; they had wept in each other's arms; they had apperceived together; awful thought, they had apperceived ME. Never before had I been so moved. I rose to my feet, my teeth tightly clenched, vaguely pleased to notice that I stood unsteadily; it was the proper, the most effective way. "Marion," I said, in an undertone, gripping her arm, yet careful to press only hard enough for a grip--she was such a tender little thing, though so cruel. I had intended to say more, but the one word seemed so full of meaning that I stopped to let it penetrate; also to give one swift glance at the reflection of my face in the mirror of the wall-cabinet. That glance showed me that I appeared to be struggling with the unutterable; I went on doing so. Marion's face grew pale and rigid. "Good gracious, Henry!" she cried, trying to rise; "what's the matter?" "Sit still," I commanded fiercely, with a bitter smile; a smile that made my teeth gleam back at me wolfishly from the wall-cabinet. "Matter enough! You've wrecked my happiness by telling Aunt Sophy that I wanted another wife." "I never did!" she cried indignantly. "Do you think I could bear to tell _any_one if--if it was true?"