"The boy is father to the man," remarked my stepmother, with venomous emphasis. "Now, John," said Barbara, "what have you to say to it?" My impulse was to reply that the story was false, but I checked myself in time, and simply said: "Nothing. Either my memory or yours"--to my stepmother--"is at fault." "You have a shocking memory, John," said Barbara. "Not your fault, my dear--you were born with it. We all forgive you, don't we, Mrs. Fordham--and you, too, Louis? It would be dreadful if we nursed every little grievance, and saved disagreeable things for future use against one another. Let us talk of something pleasant." "You have the temper of an angel, Barbara," ejaculated Maxwell. "It runs in our family," returned Barbara, casting up her eyes, "and we won't boast of it. Whether we are married or single, we don't lie on beds of roses." By the time the dinner came to an end the inuendoes, the sly thrusts, the holding up of my wife as a martyr to my disparagement had become unbearable. The ladies retired to the drawing-room, and I refused to stop and drink with Louis and Maxwell. Strolling from the house I lit a cigar, and upon my return the guests were preparing to take their departure. "Such a pleasant evening," said my stepmother. "I hope you will turn over a new leaf, John, and be kind to your wife. You have a treasure in her. You must come and dine with us, soon." I stood at the street door while she and the men entered a cab together. Barbara, standing by my side, waved her handkerchief to them. The moment the cab was out of sight she turned upon me like a fury. "You beast!" she cried. "Is that the way you treat my friends?" And she ran into the house. Sadly enough I followed her, in doubt of the best course to pursue. She solved the doubt by saying: "I am going to my room. You will find the spare room ready for you." "This is a bad commencement, Barbara," I ventured to say. "Thank yourself for it," she retorted, and disappeared. I possessed a small library of books, which I had sent to the house, and I endeavored to while away the time by reading. But I could not fix my attention; I turned over page after page without any comprehension of the printed words. And so I passed the time in a dull, lethargic state until eleven o'clock struck. I left my book and set myself to the old task of reviewing the incidents of the day, with the same old result. If the fault were mine there must be some defect in my understanding of passing events in which I was concerned. My melancholy musings were interrupted by the sound of Barbara's voice in the room above. She was laughing and singing--a babble of unconnected lines, the laughter of a woman under the influence of drink. The door of her room was opened and shut, and I heard Annette descend the stairs. I intercepted her. "What is the matter with your mistress?" "Madame is unwell." "What is your errand now?"