ly say 'How do you do,' and express my
sympathy, since I know something about neuralgia myself--that's all."

Upon which they turned back, and Mr. Harriott ushered the unexpected, the
spick-and-span caller into my presence, with the reassuring word: "Mr.
Barrett is sparing a moment or two of his time, Clara, to express his
sympathy for you."

When a woman knows she is an "object," words of welcome for the
unexpected visitor are apt to come haltingly from the tongue, and that I
was an "object" no one can deny. A loose, pink dressing-gown was bad, a
knit white shawl huddled about the shoulders was worse, but, oh, worst of
all, my hair was all scrambled up to the top of my head (hair was dressed
low then), and a broad handkerchief bandage concealed from the eye, but
not from the nose, the presence of a remedial poultice of flour and
brandy.

Truly it is such acts as this that brings many a well-meaning but
apparently demented husband into the divorce court. Now any friend,
relative, or servant would have bravely but politely prevaricated to the
last gasp rather than have admitted a caller to me in that state, but
husbands have no discretion, husbands have no--well, that's too large a
contract, so I'll keep to that call.

I was aghast for a moment, but the warm pressure of Mr. Barrett's hand,
his brightening eye gave me such an impression of sincerity in his
pleased greeting that I forgot I was an "object," and asked him to sit
down for a chat, as eagerly as though I had had all my war-paint on.

We were soon exchanging memories of the past, and Mr. Harriott, having a
business engagement ahead, excused himself and withdrew. Mr. Barrett,
calling after him: "I'll join you in a moment," resumed his conversation.
There still stood on the table a pot of tea and a plate holding two
pieces of toast. They had been meant for my lunch, but neuralgia had the
call, and lunch had been ignored; so, as we talked on and on, presently
Mr. Barrett, seeing my bandage sliding down over my eyes, rose, and,
without pausing in his rapid description of a certain picture he had seen
abroad in its creator's studio, he passed behind me, tightened the knot
of the handkerchief, put the sofa-pillow behind my head, a stool under my
feet, and resumed his seat.

Then I talked and talked, and grew excited, then thirsty. I drew the tray
nearer and poured out a cup of tea.

"Give me some," said Mr. Barrett, who was now telling me about a sitting
of Pa