perception, had discerned the existence of a sorrow in my wife to which I, the man whom she loved and who loved her, had been insensible. He had understood and had comforted--while I, engrossed in larger matters, had gone on my way unheeding and indifferent. Then the anger against myself turned blindly upon George, and I demanded passionately if he would stand forever in my life as the embodiment of instincts and perceptions that the generations had bred? Would I fail forever in little things because I had been cursed at birth by an inability to see any except big ones? And where I failed would George be always ready to fill the unspoken need and to bestow the unasked-for sympathy? CHAPTER XXIII IN WHICH I WALK ON THIN ICE On a November evening, when we had been married several years, I came home after seven o'clock, and found Sally standing before the bureau while she fastened a bunch of violets to the bosom of her gown. "I'm sorry I couldn't get up earlier, but there's a good deal of excitement over a failure in Wall Street," I said. "Are you going out?" Her hands fell from her bosom, and as she turned toward me, I saw that she was dressed as though for a ball. "Not to-night, Ben. I had an engagement, but I broke it because I wanted to spend the evening with you. I thought we might have a nice cosy time all by ourselves." "What a shame, darling. I've promised Bradley I'd do a little work with him in my study. He's coming at half-past eight and will probably keep me till midnight. I'll have to hurry. Did you put on that gorgeous gown just for me?" "Just for you." There was an expression on her face, half humorous, half resentful, that I had never seen there before. "What day is this, Ben?" she asked, as I was about to enter my dressing-room. "The nineteenth of November," I replied carelessly, looking back at her with my hand on the door. "The nineteenth of November," she echoed slowly, as if saying the words to herself. I was already on the threshold when light broke on me in a flash, and I turned, blind with remorse, and seized her in my arms. "Sally, Sally, I am a brute!" She laughed a little, drawing away, not coming closer. "Ben, are you happy?" "As happy as a king. I'll telephone Bradley not to come." "Is it important?" "Yes, very important. That failure I told you of is a pretty serious matter." "Then let him come. All days are the same, after all, when one comes to think of it." Her hand went to the violets at her breast, and as my eyes followed it, a sudden intuitive dread entered my mind like an impulse of rage. "I intended to send you flowers, Sally, but in the rush, I forgot. Whose are those you are wearing?" She moved slightly, and the perfume of the violets floated from the cloud of lace on her bosom. "George sent them," she answered quietly.