I imagine some such effect as this was being produced upon my wife by her surroundings of luxury. I think that may account for her long decreasing charm for me. At any rate, soon after she was well launched on her Elysian sea of fashion--that is to say, soon after she ceased to have any check of social seeking to restrain her from centering all her thoughts and actions upon herself, she lost the last bit of her charm for me. She became radiantly beautiful. Her face took on a serene and refinedly assured expression that made her extravagantly admired on every hand. She became gracious to me and almost as sweet as she had been before we moved to New York. She even let me see that, if I so desired, she would condescend to be on terms of wifely affection with me again. But I did not so desire. I liked her. I admired her energy, her toilets, and, quite impersonally, her aristocratic beauty. But I was content to be a bachelor, and I was grateful when she began to relieve me of the tediousness of going about in her train. My substitute was an architect, Leon MacIlvane by name--a handsome young fellow of about my wife’s age, though he thought her much younger, despite Margot’s age and appearance. With his poetic dark eyes and classic features, and rich, deep voice, MacIlvane had long been a favorite with the young married women of the Armitage set. He was indeed a valuable asset. The rich unmarried men were not especially interesting; also, they were needed by the marriageable girls. MacIlvane, not a marrying man and never making any mother uneasy by so much as an interested glance at a daughter intended for a rich husband, devoted himself to married women. “I do not care for girls,” he said to me. “They are too colorless.” “Why bother with women at all?” said I. “Aren’t they all colorless? What do they know about life? What experience have they had?” “An intelligent woman’s mind is the complement of an intelligent man’s mind,” said he, as if this trite old fallacy were a brilliant discovery of his own making. “Women stimulate me, give me ideas.” “Oh, I see,” said I practically. “Business. Yes, an architect does deal chiefly with the women.” “I didn’t mean that,” said he, showing as much anger as he dared show the husband of the woman to whom he had attached himself. “Where’s the harm in it?” said I encouragingly. “You’ve got to make a living--haven’t you? It’s good sense for a business man to cultivate his customers.”