I am very homesick.  I wish I could see Tom.  I do hope Tom found my message about Dr. Denbigh.

Twenty-four hours later.—­The breeze of yesterday has spun into a whirlwind to-day.  I am half stunned by the possibilities of human existence.  One lives the simple life at Eastridge; and New York strikes me on the head like some heavy thing blown down.  If these are the results of the very little love-affair of one very little girl—­what must the great emotion, the real experience, the vigorous crisis, bring?

At “The Sphinx,” as is well known, no male being is admitted on any pretence.  I believe the porter (for heavy trunks) is the only exception.  The bell-boys are bell-girls.  The clerk is a matron, and the proprietress a widow in half-mourning.

At nine o’clock this morning I was peremptorily summoned out of the breakfast-room and ordered to the desk.  Two frowning faces received me.  With cold politeness I was reminded of the leading clause in the constitution of that house.

“Positively,” observed the clerk, “no gentlemen callers are permitted at this hotel, and, madam, there are two on the door-steps who insist upon an interview with you; they have been there half an hour.  One of them refuses to recognize the rule of the house.  He insists upon an immediate suspension of it.  I regret to tell you that he went so far as to mention that he would have a conversation with you if it took a search-warrant to get it.”

“He says,” interrupted the proprietress in half-mourning, “that he is your husband.”

She spoke quite distinctly, and as these dreadful words re-echoed through the lobby, I saw that two ladies had come out from the reception-room and were drinking the scene down.  One of these was the fat lady with the three chins; the other was the poodle girl.  She held him, at that unpleasant moment, by a lavender ribbon leash.  It seems she gets a permit for him everywhere.

And he is the wrong sex, I am sure, to obtain any privileges at “The Sphinx.”

The mosaic of that beautiful lobby did not open and swallow me down as I tottered across it to the vestibule.  A strapping door-girl guarded the entrance.  Grouped upon the long flight of marble steps two men impatiently awaited me.  The one with the twitching mustache was Dr. Denbigh.  But he, oh, he with the lightning in his eyes, he was my husband, Thomas Price.

“Maria,” he began, with ominous composure, “if you have any explanations to offer of these extraordinary circumstances—­” Then the torrent burst forth.  Every expletive familiar to the wives of good North-American husbands broke from Tom’s unleashed lips.  “I didn’t hear of it till afternoon.  I took the midnight express.  Billy told Matilda he saw you get aboard the 7.20 train It’s all over Eastridge.  We have been married thirteen years, Maria, and I have always had occasion to trust your judgment and good sense till now.”

“That is precisely what I told her,” ventured Dr. Denbigh.