"Is that you, Jimmie?" I guessed. "Of course it's me! Who else did you expect? One of those flashy blondes from your office?" "Sh!" shushed the doctor reprovingly. "What about Virginia? What have you done with her?" This required serious thought. The glass of Scotch was a good alibi for amnesia. "To whom do you refer?" I asked, putting a slight thickness into my voice. "To Virginia, my wife!" he snapped. "We agreed--it was understood between the four of us--" I shook my head virtuously. "I haven't set eyes on her all day," I said. "I don't know where she is and I refuse to be held responsible for her in any particular. She's your look-out, not mine." "Why, you!--" The doctor started forward, menacing me with his surgical little fists. "Wait a minute, Jerry," the contralto voice ordered. "Let me handle this!" Germaine Tompkins stepped forward into the room and stood in the flickering light of the electric peat. "Tell me, Winnie," she asked, "has anything gone wrong?" My wife was a tall, slim girl, with dark eyes, dark hair parted sleekly in the 1860 style, and a cool, slender neck. She was wearing something low-cut in black velvet, with a white cameo brooch at the "V" of a bodice which suggested a potentially undemure Quakeress. I noticed that she had angry eyes, a sulky mouth and a puzzled expression. "I'm sorry, Jimmie," I replied, after a good look at her, "but I have decided that I simply couldn't go through with it." "Do you mean to say--" Dr. Rutherford began, only to be hushed by Germaine. "Let me handle him, Jerry," she whispered. "You'd better go. He's tight. I'll phone you in the morning." "All right, if you say so, dear," the doctor obeyed. "And be sure to send me a bill for this call," I added. "Professional services and what-not. And don't come back to my house without my personal invitation." Dr. Rutherford emitted a muttered comment and disappeared into the gloom of the hall. My wife followed him and I could hear a series of confused and comforting whispers sending him on his way. I had finished my Scotch and poured myself another before my wife rejoined me. "Have a drink?" I asked. "No thank you!" she snapped. "Mad at me?" "What do you think?" Her tone was cool enough to freeze lava. "You have every right to be!" That answer, I had found by experience, was unanswerable. "What do you mean?" she asked in some bewilderment. "Yes, thanks, I will have a drink after all. You see, Winnie, after we had talked it all over the other night after the Bond Rally Dance and realized how we felt about it all, the four of us decided to be--well--civilized about things. And now--" "I don't feel civilized about my wife," I said, pouring her a stiff one. Her eyes glittered and her cheek was tinged with color. In spite of her anger, she responded to the idea of male brutes contesting for her favor.