"I didn't mean that exactly," he responded. "But perhaps it is true enough. Death is not the worst thing in this world, you know." "You are always talking of dying," returned his young wife, impatiently. "I wonder you don't commit suicide." "I have thought of it," he answered, looking at her with a tolerant smile. "But life amuses me still--I have so much curiosity, you know. But I might do it, if I were sure I could have the privilege of coming back to see what you will be up to when I'm gone." She looked straight before her and made no answer, keeping her lips firmly compressed. There was a touch of tenderness in his tone as he went on, a curious cynical tenderness, quite characteristic of him. "Don't let some rascal marry you for my money. That would annoy me, I confess. And yet, I don't know why I should suggest the possibility of such a thing, for you will be a most fascinating widow." She gazed ahead steadily and said nothing, but she had joined her hands together, and her fingers kept moving. "Still," he continued, "I'm afraid I'm good for ten years more. We're a hardy stock, you know. My father lived to be eighty, and he was fifty when I was born. Besides, you take such good care of me always." He held out his hand to her, and she took it and clasped it tight in both of hers, while the tears brimmed her eyes. "But perhaps you are letting me stay out too long this afternoon," he said. "It is balmy, I know, but I'm getting tired already." "John," she cried, hastily, "you may turn now, and go home." "I don't want you to lose this lovely September afternoon," her husband declared. "Take me home, and come back to the Park here for an hour, while I have a nap, if I can." Just then there was a break in the stream of vehicles, and the coachman took advantage of it and turned the horses' heads southward. In five minutes the victoria swerved to the westward, leaving the Lake behind, and making for the Riverside Drive.