Really! Mona had never yet got accustomed to her husband’s smile. They had been married for three years. She was in love with him for countless reasons, but apart from them all, a special reason all to itself, was because of his smile. If it hadn’t sounded nonsense she would have said she fell in love at first sight over and over again when he smiled. Other people felt the charm of it, too. Other women, she was certain. Sometimes she thought that even the servants watched for it.... “Don’t forget we’re going to the theatre to-night.” “Oh, good egg! I had forgotten. It’s ages since we went to a show.” “Yes, isn’t it? I feel quite thrilled.” “Don’t you think we might have a tiny small celebration at dinner?” (“Tiny small” was one of her expressions. But why did it sound so sweet when he used it?) “Yes, let’s. You mean champagne?” And she looked into the distance, and said in a far-away voice: “Then I must revise the sweet.” At that moment the maid came in with the letters. There were four for him, three for her. No, one of hers belonged to him, too, rather a grimy little envelope with a dab of sealing wax on the back. “Why do you get all the letters?” she wailed, handing it across. “It’s awfully unfair. I love letters and I never get any.” “Well, I do like that!” said he. “How can you sit there and tell such awful bangers? It’s the rarest thing on earth for me to get a letter in the morning. It’s always you who get those mysterious epistles from girls you were at college with or faded aunts. Here, have half my pear—it’s a beauty.” She held out her plate. The Rutherfords never shared their letters. It was her idea that they should not. He had been violently opposed to it at first. She couldn’t help laughing; he had so absolutely misunderstood her reason. “Good God! my dear. You’re perfectly welcome to open any letters of mine that come to the house—or to read any letters of mine that may be lying about. I think I can promise you....” “Oh no, no, darling, that’s not what I mean. I don’t suspect you.” And she put her hands on his cheeks and kissed him quickly. He looked like an offended boy. “But so many of Mother’s old friends write to me—confide in me—don’t you know?—tell me things they wouldn’t for the world tell a man. I feel it wouldn’t be fair to them. Don’t you see?” He gave way at last. But “I’m old fashioned,” he said, and his smile was a little rueful. “I like to feel my wife reads my letters.” “My precious dear! I’ve made you unhappy.” She felt so repentant; she didn’t know quite about what. “Of course I’d love to read....” “No, no! That’s all right. It’s understood. We’ll keep the bond.” And they had kept it. He slit open the grimy envelope. He began to read. “Damn!” he said and thrust out his under lip. “Why, what is it? Something horrid?” “No—annoying. I shall be late this evening. A man wants to meet me at the office at six o’clock.” “Was that a business letter?” She sounded surprised. “Yes, why?”