My meditations were interrupted by the entrance of my wife, who, with an anxious look on her face, inquired what was the matter.  The butler had said I seemed indisposed; so she had slipped away from our guests and come up to see for herself.  She was in full regalia—­elaborate gown, pearls, aigret.

“There’s nothing the matter with me,” I answered, though I know full well I lied—­I was poisoned.

“Well, that’s a comfort, at any rate!” she replied, amiably enough.

“Where’s Tom?” I asked wearily.

“I haven’t any idea,” she said frankly.  “You know he almost never comes home.”

“And the girls?”

“Visiting the Devereuxs at Staatsburg,” she answered.  “Aren’t you coming down for some bridge?”

“No,” I said.  “To tell you the truth I never want to see a pack of cards again.  I want to cut the game.  I’m sick of our life and the useless extravagance.  I want a change.  Let’s get rid of the whole thing—­take a smaller house—­have fewer servants.  Think of the relief!”

“What’s the matter?” she cried sharply.  “Have you lost money?”

Money!  Money!

“No,” I said, “I haven’t lost money—­I’ve lost heart!”

She eyed me distrustfully.

“Are you crazy?” she demanded.

“No,” I answered.  “I don’t think I am.”

“You act that way,” she retorted.  “It’s a funny time to talk about changing your mode of life—­right in the middle of a bridge party!  What have you been working for all these years?  And where do I come in?  You can go to your clubs and your office—­anywhere; but all I’ve got is the life you have taught me to enjoy!  Tom is grown up and never comes near me.  And the girls—­why, what do you think would happen to them if you suddenly gave up your place in society?  They’d never get married so long as they lived.  People would think you’d gone bankrupt!  Really”—­her eyes filled and she dabbed at them with a Valenciennes handkerchief—­“I think it too heartless of you to come in this way—­like a skeleton at the feast—­and spoil my evening!”

I felt a slight touch of remorse.  I had broached the matter rather roughly.  I laid my hand on her shoulder—­now so round and matronly, once so slender.

“Anna,” I said as tenderly as I could, “suppose I did give it all up?”

She rose indignantly to her feet and shook off my hand.

“You’d have to get along without me!” she retorted; then, seeing the anguish on my face, she added less harshly:  “Take a brandy-and-soda and go to bed.  I’m sure you’re not quite yourself.”

I was struck by the chance significance of her phrase—­“Not quite yourself.”  No; ever since I had left the house that morning I had not been quite myself.  I had had a momentary glimpse—­had for an instant caught the glint of an angel’s wing—­but it was gone.  I was almost myself—­my old self; yet not quite.

“I didn’t mean to be unkind,” I muttered.  “Don’t worry about me.  I’ve merely had a vision of what might have been, and it’s disgusted me.  Go on down to the bridge fiends.  I’ll be along shortly—­if you’ll excuse my clothes.”