“There’s no such thing as disinterestedness.  You never do anything for anybody, except for what you get out of it for yourself....  Let’s go skating?”

The suggestion was not the result of premeditation; Maurice, politely opening the front door for his wife, had realized, as he stood on the threshold and a biting wind flung a handful of powdery snow in his face,—­the sparkling coldness of the day; and he thought to himself, “this is about the last chance for skating!  There’ll be a thaw next week.”  So, when he came back, whistling, to the library, he said:  “Are you game for skating?  It’s cold as blazes!”

And Edith said:  “You bet I am!  Only we’ll have to go to Fern Hill for my skates!”

Maurice said, “All right!” and off they went, the glowing vigor and youth of them a beauty in itself!

So it was that when Eleanor got home, after having gently and patiently sung to poor Donny for nearly an hour, the library was empty; but a note on the mantelpiece said:  “We’ve gone skating.—­E. and M.”  “She waited until I went out,” Eleanor thought; “then she suggested it to him!” She sat down, huddling over the fire, and thinking how Maurice neglected her; “He doesn’t want me.  He likes to go off with Edith, alone!” They had probably gone to the river—­“our river!”—­that broad part just below the meadow, where there was apt to be good skating.  That made her remember the September day and the picnic, when Edith had talked about jealousy—­“Bingoism,” she had called it.  “She tried to attract him by being smart.  I detest smartness!” The burning pain under her breastbone was intolerable.  She thought of the impertinent things Edith had said that day—­and the ridiculous inference that if the person of whom you were jealous, was more attractive in any way than you were yourself, it was unreasonable to be jealous;—­“get busy, and be attractive!” Edith had said, with pert shallowness.  “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about!” Eleanor said; and jealousy seared her mind as a flame might have seared her flesh.  “I haven’t skated since I was a girl....  I—­I believe next winter I’ll take it up again.”  The tears stood in her eyes.

It was at that moment that the telegram was brought into the library.

“Mr. Curtis isn’t in,” Eleanor told the maid; then she did what anyone would do, in the absence of the person to whom the dispatch was addressed; signed for it ... opened it ... read it.

Jacky’s sick; please come over quick.

L. D_.

“There’s no answer,” she said.  When the maid had left the room, Maurice’s wife moistened the flap of the flimsy brown envelope—­it had been caught only on one side; got up, went into the hall, laid the dispatch on the table, came back to the library, and fainted dead away.