Hilmer’s experiences were not quite in the line of drawing-room anecdotes, and Starratt had seen the time when his wife would have recoiled from them with the disdainful grace of a feline shaking unwelcome moisture from its paws.  But to-night she drew her dark eyebrows together tensely and let her thin, vivid lips part with frank eagerness.  Her interest flamed her with a new quality.  Fred Starratt had always known that his wife was attractive; he would not have married her otherwise; but, as she leaned forward upon the arm of her chair, resting her elbows upon an orange satin pillow, he saw that she was handsome.  And, somehow, the realization vaguely disturbed him.

Hilmer’s stories of prosperity were not so moving.  From a penniless emigrant in New York until he had achieved the distinction of being one of the leading shipbuilders of the Pacific coast, his narrative steadily dwindled in power, the stream of his life choked with stagnant scum of good fortune.  Indeed, he grew so dull that Helen Starratt, stifling a yawn, said: 

“If it’s not too personal ... won’t you please tell us ... about ... about the man you killed for smashing your thumb?”

He laughed with charming naivete, and began at once.  But it was all disappointingly simple.  It had happened aboard ship.  A hulking Finn, one of the crew’s bullies, had accused Hilmer of stealing his tobacco.  A scuffle followed, blows, blood drawn.  Upon the slippery deck Hilmer had fallen prone in an attempt to place a swinging blow.  The Finn had seized this opportunity and flung a bit of pig iron upon Hilmer’s sprawling right hand.  Hilmer had leaped to his feet at once and, seizing the bar of iron in his dripping fingers, had crushed the bully’s head with one sure, swift blow.

“He fell face downward ... his head split open like a rotten melon.”

Helen Starratt shuddered.  “How ... how perfectly fascinating!” escaped her.

Starratt stared.  He had never seen his wife so kindled with morbid excitement.

“I ...  I thought you didn’t like to hear unpleasant stories,” he threw at her, disagreeably.

She tossed the flaming cushion, upon which she had been leaning, into a corner, a certain insolence in her quick gesture.

“I don’t like to read about them,” she retorted, and she turned a wanton smile in the direction of Hilmer.

At this juncture the maid opened the folding doors between the dining room and the living room.  She had on her hat and coat, and, as she retreated to the kitchen, Helen Starratt flashed a significant look at her husband.

He followed the woman reluctantly.  When he entered the kitchen she was leaning against the sink, smoothing on a pair of faded silk gloves.

“I’m sorry,” he began, awkwardly, “but I forgot to cash a check to-day.  How much do you charge?”

The woman’s hands flew instinctively to her hips as she braced herself into an attitude of defiance.