nder of this family's fortunes,
that Gertrude had at last consented to be my wife. And there he still
lorded it above the fireplace, unchanged, glaring down malignantly
through the shadows, his stiff neck bandaged like a mummy's, his hard,
high cheek bones and cavernous eyes making him the very image of bugaboo
death. What an eavesdropper for the approaching reconciliation; for that
was what it had come to. That was what it would have to be!

It was not Gertrude who came down to me; it was Lucette. Lucette--all
graciousness, all sympathetic understanding, all feline smiles! Dear
Gertrude had 'phoned her on arriving, and she had rushed to her at once!
Dear Gertrude had such a desperate headache! She couldn't possibly see
me to-night. She was really ill, had been growing rapidly worse for an
hour. Perhaps to-morrow?

I was in no mood to be tricked by this stale subterfuge.

"See here, Lucette," I said sternly, "I'm not going to fence with you or
fool round at cross purposes. Less than an hour ago Gertrude sent over a
note, asking me to call."

"To which you returned an insufferable verbal reply."

"A bad-tempered reply, I admit. No insult was intended. And I've come
now to apologize for the temper."

"Oh, dear!" sighed Lucette. "Men always do their thinking too late. I
wish I could reassure you; but the mischief seems to be done. Poor
Gertrude is furious."

"Then the headache is--hypothetical?"

"An excuse, you mean? I wish it were, for her sake!" Lucette's eyes
positively caressed me, as a tiger might lick the still-warm muzzle of
an antelope, its proximate meal. "If you could see her face, poor
creature! She's in torment."

"I'm sorry."

"Isn't that--what you called her headache?"

"No. I'm ashamed of my boorishness. Let me see Gertrude and tell her
so."

Lucette smiled, slightly shaking her head. "Impossible--till she's
feeling better. And not then--unless she changes her mind. You see,
Ambrose, Mrs. Parrot's version of your reply was the last straw."

"No doubt she improved on the original," I muttered.

"Oh, no doubt," agreed Lucette calmly. "She would. It was silly of you
not to think of that."

"Yes," I snapped. "Men always underestimate a woman's malice."

"They have so many distractions, poor dears. Men, I mean. And we have so
few. You can put that in your next article, Ambrose?" She straightened
her languid curves deliberately, as if preparing to rise.

"Please!" I exclaimed. "I'm not ready