“Bridge?” said the old lady, smiling at the lovely picture Eunice made, in her low gown and her billowy satin wrap.  “I thought Sanford took the car.”

“He did.  I’m going in a taxi.  What a duck you are to let me have this,” as she spoke she stuffed the bills in her soft gold mesh-bag.  “Don’t sir up, dear, I’ll be out till all hours.”

“Where are you going?”

“To the end of the rainbow—­where there’s a pot of gold!  You read your spook books, and then go to bed and dream of ghosts and specters!”

Eunice kissed her lightly, and gathering up her floating draperies, went out of the room with the faithful and efficient Ferdinand.

On his way to the club, Embury pursued that pleasing occupation known as nursing his wrath.  He was sorry he had left Eunice in anger—­he realized it was the first time that had ever happened—­ and he was tempted to go back, or, at least to telephone back, that he was sorry.  But that would do little good, he knew, unless he also said he was willing to accede to her request for an allowance, and that he was as sternly set against as ever.

He couldn’t quite have told himself why he was so positive in this matter, but it was largely owing to an instinctive sense of the fitness of having a wife dependent on her husband for all things.  Moreover, it seemed to him that unlimited charge accounts betokened a greater generosity than an allowance, and he felt an aggrieved irritation at Eunice’s seeming ingratitude.

The matter of her wanting “chicken-feed” now and then seemed to him too petty to be worthy of serious consideration.  He really believed that he gave her money whenever she asked for it, and was all unaware how hard he made it for her to ask.

The more he thought about it, the more he saw Eunice in the wrong, and himself an injured, unappreciated benefactor.

He adored his wife, but this peculiarity of hers must be put an end to somehow.  Her temper, too, was becoming worse instead of better; her outbreaks were more frequent, more furious, and he had less power to quell them than formerly.

Clearly, he concluded, Eunice must be taught a lesson, and this occasion must be made a test case.  He had left her angrily, and it might turn out that it was the best thing he could have done.  Poor girl, she doubtless was sorry enough by now; crying, probably.  His heart softened as he conjured up the picture of his wife alone, and in tears, but he reasoned that it would do her good, and he would give her a new jewel to make up for it, after the trouble was all over.

So he went on to the club, and dove into the great business of the last possible chance of electioneering.

Though friendly through all this campaign, the strain was beginning to tell on the two candidates, and both Embury and Hendricks found it a little difficult to keep up their good feeling.

“But,” they both reasoned, “as soon as the election is over, we’ll be all right again.  We’re both too good sports to hold rancor, or to feel any jealousy.”