Well, on the anniversary of the day Bella left him—­oh yes, she left him finally.  She was intense enough about some things, and she said it got on her nerves to have everybody chuckle when they asked for her husband.  They would say, “Hello, Bella!  How’s Bubbles?  Still banting?” And Bella would try to laugh and say, “He swears his tailor says his waist is smaller, but if it is he must be growing hollow in the back.”

But she got tired of it at last.  Well, on the second anniversary of Bella’s departure, Jimmy was feeling pretty glum, and as I say, I am very fond of Jim.  The divorce had just gone through and Bella had taken her maiden name again and had had an operation for appendicitis.  We heard afterward that they didn’t find an appendix, and that the one they showed her in a glass jar was not hers!  But if Bella ever suspected, she didn’t say.  Whether the appendix was anonymous or not, she got box after box of flowers that were, and of course every one knew that it was Jim who sent them.

To go back to the anniversary, I went to Rothberg’s to see the collection of antique furniture—­mother was looking for a sideboard for father’s birthday in March—­and I met Jimmy there, boring into a worm-hole in a seventeenth-century bedpost with the end of a match, and looking his nearest to sad.  When he saw me he came over.

“I’m blue today, Kit,” he said, after we had shaken hands.  “Come and help me dig bait, and then let’s go fishing.  If there’s a worm in every hole in that bedpost, we could go into the fish business.  It’s a good business.”

“Better than painting?” I asked.  But he ignored my gibe and swelled up alarmingly in order to sigh.

“This is the worst day of the year for me,” he affirmed, staring straight ahead, “and the longest.  Look at that crazy clock over there.  If you want to see your life passing away, if you want to see the steps by which you are marching to eternity, watch that clock marking the time.  Look at that infernal hand staying quiet for sixty seconds and then jumping forward to catch up with the procession.  Ugh!”

“See here, Jim,” I said, leaning forward, “you’re not well.  You can’t go through the rest of the day like this.  I know what you’ll do; you’ll go home to play Grieg on the pianola, and you won’t eat any dinner.”  He looked guilty.

“Not Grieg,” he protested feebly.  “Beethoven.”

“You’re not going to do either,” I said with firmness.  “You are going right home to unpack those new draperies that Harry Bayles sent you from Shanghai, and you are going to order dinner for eight—­that will be two tables of bridge.  And you are not going to touch the pianola.”

He did not seem enthusiastic, but he rose and picked up his hat, and stood looking down at me where I sat on an old horse-hair covered sofa.

“I wish to thunder I had married you!” he said savagely.  “You’re the finest girl I know, Kit, without exception, and you are going to throw yourself away on Jack Manning, or Max, or some other—­”