I finished the reading of the letter with mingled feelings of joy and dismay.  Joy was the stronger, however.  Dear old Jack was safe at home.  But there were adjustments which I must make.  I had my marriage to explain to Jack, and Jack to explain to Dicky.  Nothing but this letter could have so revealed to me the strength of the infatuation for Dicky which had swept me off my feet and resulted in my marriage after only a six months’ acquaintance.  Reading it I realized that the memory of Jack had been so pushed into the background during the past six months that I never had thought to tell Dicky about him.

“You’ve made a great conquest,” said Dicky that evening when we were finishing dinner, “Lil thinks you’re about the nicest little piece of calico she has ever measured—­those were her own words.  She’s planning a frolic for the crowd some night at your convenience.”

“That is awfully kind of her.  Where did you see her.”  I prided myself on my careless tone, but Dicky gave me a shrewd glance.

“Why, at the studio, of course.  Her studio is on the same floor as mine, you know.  Atwood and Barker and she and I are all on one floor, and we often have a dish of tea together when we are not rushed.”

I busied myself with the coffee machine until I could control my voice.  How I hated these glimpses of the intimate friendship which must exist between my husband and this woman!

“I suppose we ought to have them all over some night,” I said at last, “but I’ll have to add a few things to our equipment, and wait until I get a maid.”

“That will be fine,” Dicky assented cordially, pushing back his chair.  “Did the papers come?  I’ll look them over for a little.  Whistle when you’re ready and I’ll wipe the dishes for you.”

He strolled into the living room, and I suddenly remembered that I had laid my letter from Jack on the table, with its pages scattered so that any one picking them up could not help seeing them.

I had forgotten all about the letter.  I had meant to show it to Dicky after I had explained about Jack.  It was not quite the letter for a bridegroom to find without expectation.  I realized that.

I could not get the letter without attracting his attention.  I waited, every nerve tense, listening to the sounds in the next room.  I heard the rustling of the newspaper; then a sudden silence told me his attention had been arrested by something.  Would he read the letter?  I did not think so.  I knew his sense of honor was too keen for that, but I remembered that the last page with its signature was at the top of the sheets as I laid them down.  That was enough to make any loving husband reflect a bit.

How would Dicky take it?  I wondered.  I was soon to know.  I Heard him crush the paper in his hand, then come quickly to the kitchen.  I pretended to be busy with the dishes, but he strode over to me, and clutching me by the shoulder with a grip that hurt, thrust the letter before my face, and said hoarsely: