He, the poseur and the small man, hated this plain truthful way of dealing with his profession. Like all chaps of that kidney he thought only of himself and of appearances, and sought to degrade a noble profession to the base uses of his vanity. In fact, he had begun with my wife because of the orders he hoped to get--for, he suspected that once she looked about her in the fashionable world from the new viewpoint of a fashionable person, she would want changes in her house to make it less vividly grand. He believed she would let Hilda Armitage educate her; and Hilda, unlike most of her friends, liked the quiet kinds of ostentation and costliness. And he guessed correctly. He was well paid for undertaking to replace me as escort--so far as I could be replaced without causing scandal--and, thank heaven, that was very far in the New York of busy and bored husbands, detesting the gaudy gaddings their wives loved. Soon he was serving my wife for other reasons than pay. I saw something of him from time to time, and I presently began to note a change in his manner toward me--a formal politeness, an exaggeration of courtesy. I spoke to Armitage about it. Armitage and I had become the most intimate of friends--knocked about together in the evenings, were more closely associated than ever in business. “Bob,” said I to Armitage, “what ails that ass, MacIlvane? He treats me as if he were in love with my wife.” Armitage laughed. “That’s it,” said he. “My wife’s spaniel, Courtleigh, who writes poetry, treats me the same way. Get any anonymous letters yet?” “Two,” said I. “Servants,” said he. “I suppose you burnt them? You didn’t show them to your wife?” “Heavens, no,” replied I. “Why unsettle her? Why upset a pleasant arrangement? My wife finds MacIlvane useful. I find him invaluable. He saves me hours of time. He spares me hours of boredom.” “My feeling about Courtleigh,” said Armitage. “And both those chaps are comfortably trustworthy.” “I hadn’t thought of MacIlvane in that way,” said I. “I know my wife--and that’s enough.” Armitage reflected with an amused smile on his face. Finally, he said: “I don’t suppose there ever were since the world began so thoroughly trustworthy women as these American women of the fashionable crowd--those that have very rich husbands--and only those, of course, are really fashionable. They may flirt a little, but never anything serious--never anything that’d give their husbands an excuse for throwing them out--and lose them their big houses and big incomes and social leadership.” I had not thought of these aspects of the matter. I based my feeling of security solely on my knowledge of my wife’s intense self-absorption. All the springs of sentiment--except the shallow spring of highfaluting talk--had dried up in her. She would listen to MacIlvane’s flatteries as long as he cared to pour them out. But if he ever tried to get her to think of _him_, she would feel outraged.