A COMEDY FOR WIVES

At half-past six o’clock from Wall Street, Jack Lightbody let himself into his apartment, called his wife by name, and received no answer.

“Hello, that’s funny,” he thought, and, ringing, asked of the maid, “Did Mrs. Lightbody go out?”

“About an hour ago, sir.”

“That’s odd.  Did she leave any message?”

“No, sir.”

“That’s not like her.  I wonder what’s happened.”

At this moment his eye fell on an open hat-box of mammoth proportions, overshadowing a thin table in the living-room.

“When did that come?”

“About four o’clock, sir.”

He went in, peeping into the empty box with a smile of satisfaction and understanding.

“That’s it, she’s rushed off to show it to some one,” he said, with a half vindictive look toward the box.  “Well, it cost $175, and I don’t get my winter suit; but I get a little peace.”

He went to his room, rebelliously preparing to dress for the dinner and theater to which he had been commanded.

“By George, if I came back late, wouldn’t I catch it?” he said with some irritation, slipping into his evening clothes and looking critically at his rather subdued reflection in the glass.  “Jim tells me I’m getting in a rut, middle-aged, showing the wear.  Perhaps.”  He rubbed his hand over the wrinkled cheek and frowned.  “I have gone off a bit—­sedentary life—­six years.  It does settle you.  Hello! quarter of seven.  Very strange!”

He slipped into a lilac dressing-gown which had been thrust upon him on his last birthday and wandered uneasily back into the dining-room.

“Why doesn’t she telephone?” he thought; “it’s her own party, one of those infernal problem plays I abhor.  I didn’t want to go.”

The door opened and the maid entered.  On the tray was a letter.

“For me?” he said, surprised.  “By messenger?”

“Yes, sir.”

He signed the slip, glancing at the envelope.  It was in his wife’s handwriting.

“Margaret!” he said suddenly.

“Yes, sir.”

“The boy’s waiting for an answer, isn’t he?”

“No, sir.”

He stood a moment in blank uneasiness, until, suddenly aware that she was waiting, he dismissed her with a curt: 

“Oh, very well.”

Then he remained by the table, looking at the envelope which he did not open, hearing the sound of the closing outer door and the passing of the maid down the hall.

“Why didn’t she telephone?” he said aloud slowly.

He looked at the letter again.  He had made no mistake.  It was from his wife.

“If she’s gone off again on some whim,” he said angrily, “by George, I won’t stand for it.”

Then carelessly inserting a finger, he broke the cover and glanced hastily down the letter: 

    My dear Jackie: