The drawing-room door opened. We all knew that a third married lady was expected; we all looked toward the door in unutterable anticipation. Our unexpressed hopes rested silently on the possible appearance of Mrs. C. Would that admirable, but unknown, woman, at once charm and relieve us by her presence? I shudder as I write it. Mr. C walked into the room--and walked in, _alone_. Mr. Germaine suddenly varied his formal inquiry in receiving the new guest. "Is your wife ill?" he asked. Mr. C was an elderly man; Mr. C had lived (judging by appearances) in the days when the old-fashioned laws of politeness were still in force. He discovered his two married brethren in their corner, unaccompanied by _their_ wives; and he delivered his apology for _his_ wife with the air of a man who felt unaffectedly ashamed of it: "Mrs. C is so sorry. She has got such a bad cold. She does so regret not being able to accompany me." At this third apology, Mr. Germaine's indignation forced its way outward into expression in words. "Two bad colds and one bad headache," he said, with ironical politeness. "I don't know how your wives agree, gentlemen, when they are well. But when they are ill, their unanimity is wonderful!" The dinner was announced as that sharp saying passed his lips. I had the honor of taking Mrs. Germaine to the dining-room. Her sense of the implied insult offered to her by the wives of her husband's friends only showed itself in a trembling, a very slight trembling, of the hand that rested on my arm. My interest in her increased tenfold. Only a woman who had been accustomed to suffer, who had been broken and disciplined to self-restraint, could have endured the moral martyrdom inflicted on her as _this_ woman endured it, from the beginning of the evening to the end. Am I using the language of exaggeration when I write of my hostess in these terms? Look at the circumstances as they struck two strangers like my wife and myself.