An audience makes hypocrites of us all. The very mirror in your room will do it. The best acting is always done in secret. If you could see that little mouse of a woman whom you never suspect of having more than the timid sniff of an emotion, charging up and down the room in her nightdress, tearing her hair and raving with her eyes, making no sound lest you should hear her, you would be astonished. And she might be no less amazed if she could see you carrying on like a proud female Cicero, delivering the mere gestures of an eloquent oration. No acting we ever see on the stage equals the histrionic ability of the least talented woman when it comes to these bed-chamber theatricals of her secret emotions. Helen was calmer when George returned from the bank an hour later. She met him as usual. But the sight of him unnerved her. She flung herself upon his breast and clung to him, as if a strong wind was blowing which might sweep her away from him forever. “Helen! My heart, what is the matter?” he exclaimed. She sobbed. “Are you ill?” he said, turning her face so that it lay upon his breast, chin quivering, eyes closed. No, she was not ill, she said. The white lids lifted. She regarded him sorrowfully. “Only I want to ask you something. I must know,” she whispered. “Ask anything; only don’t cry. I can’t stand it,” kissing her. “George,” she began after a pause. “Yes, my life,” in grave suspense. “Am I a good wife?” Good heaven! What a question. Of course she was, the best and loveliest wife a man ever had. “But aren’t you--have you been disappointed in me?” “You surpass my happiest dreams of happiness,” he assured her hastily. Now was everything all right? Apparently not. She had gone off into another paroxysm of sobs. He stood with this storm of loveliness clasped to his breast amazed and horrified. What was the matter with Helen? He had left her calm and happy at noon. He found her now in torrential tears. She must be ill. He lifted her tenderly in his arms, strode down the hall to their room and deposited her on the bed. “You will always love me, whatever happens?” she insisted, clinging to his hand. He sat down beside her. He filled his lungs; he expanded himself. He must meet this emergency. “Helen, I could not live without loving you,” he exclaimed in a deep and powerful voice. “But if nothing happens, if nothing ever happens?” she wailed. He was speechless. When you are caught up without a moment’s notice and made to swear to every article of undying love, what else can you do? But she lay wilted, deadly pale, her eyes fixed upon him dolorously, as if he might be going to slay her with the next word. Therefore--