saloon, where the light is brilliant, yet tempered; where crimson curtains and a blazing fire speak at once of comfort and affluence of means.  There are no discomforts, such as any one meets with more or less, inevitably, in private families—­nothing to jar upon the spirit of self-indulgence and indolence which is thus fostered.  The dinners, in cooking and service, are unexceptionable; and there are always plenty of associates as idle and thoughtless, and as good-natured, as himself, to make a jest of domestic life and domestic virtues.  And, by-and-by, there is a stronger stimulus wanted, and the jest becomes more wanton over the roulette table or the keenly contested rubber; and the wine circulates more freely as the fire of youth goes out and leaves the ashes of mental and moral desolation.  Ah no! the club-house is no conservator of the purity of social life, and this Catherine Grant soon felt, as night after night her husband left her to the society of her own thoughts, or her favorite books, to meet old friends in its familiar saloons, and show them that he at least was none the less “a good fellow” for being a married man!

It was all very well, no doubt, to be able to break away from the pleasant parlor, and the interesting woman who was the presiding genius of his household, and spend his evenings in the society of gay gallants who talked of horses and Tedesco’s figure, or the gray-headed votaries of the whist table, who played the game as if the presidency depended upon “following lead,” and each trump was a diamond of inestimable worth, to be cherished and reserved, and parted with only at the last extremity.  Sometimes a thought of comparison would arise, as he sat with elevated feet beside the anthracite fire, and gazed steadfastly on his patent leathers.  Sometimes the idle jests and the heartless laughter would jar upon his ear; and the cigar was suffered to die out as, in thoughts of wife and child, he forgot to put it to his lips.  But the injustice of his conduct, in thus depriving them of his society, did not once cross his mind, until he was involuntarily made the witness of a visit between Catherine and a lady who had been her intimate friend before marriage.

He had returned hurriedly one morning in search of some papers left in his own room, dignified by the name of study, though it must be confessed that he passed but little time there.  It communicated with Catherine’s apartment, which was just then occupied by the two ladies in confidential chat.

“And so you won’t go to Mrs Sawyer’s to-night?” said Miss Lyons, who had thrown herself at full length upon a couch, and was idly teazing the baby with the tassel of her muff.  “How provoking you are!  You might as well be dead as married!  It’s well for your husband that I’m not in your place.  Why, every one’s talking about it, my child, how you are cooped up here, and Willis at the club-house night after night.  Morgan told me he was always there, and asked me what kind of a wife he had—­whether you quarreled or flirted, that he was away from you so much.”