She tossed her curls again, and laughed. “Isn’t it funny!” she said. “Just because I like a man, he’s the one person I can’t have anything to do with! Just because he’s kind and jolly and amusing and I like his jokes and his thoughtfulness toward a woman, when he’s with her, I’m not to be allowed to see him at all! But my _husband_—oh, that’s entirely different! _He_ can go out with Charlie whenever he likes and have a good time, while I stay home and wash the dishes! Oh, it’s a lovely life!” “Where did you see him to-day?” Instead of answering his question, she looked at him plaintively, and allowed tears to shine along her lower eyelids. “Why do you treat me like this?” she asked in a feeble voice. “Why can’t I have a man friend if I want to? I do like Charlie Loomis. I do like him——” “Yes! That’s what I noticed!” “Well, but what’s the good of always insulting me about him? He has time on his hands of afternoons, and so have I. Our janitor’s wife is crazy about the baby and just adores to have me leave her in their flat—the longer the better. Why shouldn’t I go to a matinée or a picture-show sometimes with Charlie? Why should I just have to sit around instead of going out and having a nice time when he wants me to?” “I want to know where you saw him to-day!” Mrs. Collinson jumped up. “You make me sick!” she said, and began to clear away the dishes. “I want to know where——” “Oh, hush up!” she cried. “He came here to leave a note for you.” “Oh,” said her husband. “I beg your pardon. That’s different.” “How sweet of you!” “Where’s the note, please?” She took it from her pocket and tossed it to him. “So long as it’s a note for _you_ it’s all right, of course!” she said. “I wonder what you’d do if he’d written one to me!” “Never mind,” said Collinson, and read the note. DEAR COLLIE: Dave and Smithie and Old Bill and Sammy Hoag and maybe Steinie and Sol are coming over to the shack about eight-thirt. Home-brew and the old pastime. _You_ know! Don’t fail.—CHARLIE. “You’ve read this, of course,” Collinson said. “The envelope wasn’t sealed.” “I have not,” his wife returned, covering the prevarication with a cold dignity. “I’m not in the habit of reading other peoples’s correspondence, thank you! I suppose you think I do so because you’d never hesitate to read any note _I_ get; but I don’t do everything you do, you see!” “Well, you can read it now,” he said, and gave her the note. Her eyes swept the writing briefly, and she made a sound of wonderment, as if amazed to find herself so true a prophet. “And the words weren’t more than out of mouth! _You_ can go and have a grand party right in his flat, while your wife stays home and gets the baby to bed and washes the dishes!” “I’m not going.” “Oh, no!” she said mockingly. “I suppose not! I see you missing one of Charlie’s stag-parties!” “I’ll miss this one.”