“’Ah, but in the matter of quality I’m way behind the flag, Bill.  You can wear cloth o’ gold, an Russian sables, an’ have champagne an’ terrapin every meal, an’ fiddlers to play while ye eat it, an’ a brass band to march around the place with ye, an’ splendid horses to ride, an’ dogs to roar on ahead an’ attract the attention of the populace.  You can have a lot of bankrupt noblemen to rub an’ manicure an’ adulate an’ chiropodize ye, an’ people who’d have to laugh at your wit or look for another job, an’ authors to read from their own works—­’

“Bill interrupted with a gentle protest:  ’Soc, how comforting you are!’

“‘Well, if all that is losin’ its charm, what’s the matter with travel?’

“‘Don’t talk to me about travel,’ said Bill.  ’We’ve worn ruts in the earth now.  Our feet have touched every land.’

“‘How many meals do you eat a day?’

“‘Three.’

“‘Try six,’ I suggested.

“He laughed, an’ I thought I was makin’ progress, so I kept on.

“‘How many motor-cars have ye ?’

“‘Four.’

“‘Get eight,’ I advised, as Bill put on the loud pedal.  ’You’ve got nineteen servants, I believe, try thirty-eight.  You have—­twenty-one dogs—­get forty-two.  You can afford it.’

“‘Come, be serious,’ said Bill.  ‘Don’t poke fun at me.’

“’Ah! but your wife must be able to prove that she has more dogs an’ horses an’ servants an’ motor-cars, an’ that she eats more meals in a day than any other woman in Connecticut.  Then, maybe, she’ll be happy.  You know it’s a woman’s ambition to excel.’

“‘We have too many fool things now,’ said Bill, mournfully.  ’She’s had enough of them—­God knows!’

“Something in Bill’s manner made me sit up and stare at him.

“‘Of course, you don’t mean that she wants another husband!’ I exclaimed.

“‘I’m not so sure of that,’ said Bill, sadly.  ’Sometimes I’m almost inclined to think she does.’

“’Well, that’s one direction in which I should advise strict economy,’ said I.  ‘You can multiply the dogs an’ the horses, an’ the servants an’ the motor-cars, but in the matter o’ wives an’ husbands we ought to stick to the simple life.  Don’t let her go to competing with those Fifth Avenue ladies.’

“‘I don’t know what’s the matter,’ Bill went on.  ’She’s had everything that her heart could wish.  But, of course, she has had only one husband, and most of her friends have had two or three.  They’ve outmarried her.  It may be that, secretly, she’s just a little annoyed about that.  Many of her old friends are consumed with envy; their bones are rotten with it.  They smile upon her; they accept her hospitality; they declare their love, and they long for her downfall.  Now, my wife has a certain pride and joy in all this, but, naturally, it breeds a sense of loneliness—­the bitter loneliness that one may find only in a crowd.  She turns more and more to me, and, between ourselves, she seems to have made up her mind that I don’t love her, and I can’t convince her that I do.’