it was a joy to walk down the street in the sun and exchange glances with passengers a la old Walt.  One day in the Botanical Gardens veils seemed to be lifted off my eyes.  I could look straight at the sun and taking my note of color from that golden light I turned my eyes on the flowers, the mown grass, the trees, and for the first time perceived what a heavenly color green is, what divine companions flowers are, and what a blue sky really means.  For half an hour I was in Paradise, and to complete my joy Nature revealed to me a new and unexpected secret.

I was lying on a bench, basking, and my silk shirt coming open the strong sun made its way to my breast and presently I felt a totally new sensation there.  I had discovered the last joy of the skin.  My skin, fed by healthy fruit-made blood, must have functioned normally under the excitation of the sun just then (for a brief space only, alas!).  I cannot describe the joy, any more than I could describe the taste of a peach to one who has only eaten apples:  it was satisfying, divine.  I opened my shirt wider, but the feeling only spread faintly, and indeed this halcyon sunny hour terminated in a restlessness that sent me walking into town to look for A.

At last I heard, not of A., but of Miss T. She was in a ballet.  I went round during rehearsal and while waiting entered into conversation with a little chorus girl with a good face, who was sewing.  On my telling her whom I was seeking she stopped sewing and looked at me quickly:  “Oh, are you her husband?  I know her. I have seen them together.”  She looked as if she were going to tell me something, but merely shook her old-fashioned head in a mournful, indescribable way, saying “Why don’t you keep your wife with you?” I went to the door and presently saw Miss T. She tried to avoid me, I thought, and looked more vicious than ever, but after a minute’s thought reluctantly told me where she and A. were staying.  To hide my fears and suspicions I had assumed a careless demeanor, but I think I should have strangled her had she refused to tell me.  I hastily went to the place indicated and going up the stairs (to the astonishment of the people) opened the door and found myself face to face with A.—­but how changed!  She had the hard, harlot, loveless look I detested.  I felt for a few minutes that I did not love her, and she regarded me coldly too, but presently old habits reinstated themselves.  She put out her hands, very pitiably, and then was sobbing in my arms.  I could get nothing out of her but sobs, and to this day do not know where she spent all these weeks nor why she did not write.  Miss T. came in after rehearsal, pale and hard-faced.  I greeted her politely, but was watching her, trying to puzzle out why A. did not look as she usually did after long absence from coition.  Miss T. took another room in the same house and was soon joined by another ballet girl, young and very pretty, who soon began to have