ow indeed Kenneth Boyd peered at him seriously, as at a patient
very critical.

"That sort of remark," he said, "just shows that you know nothing about
women and ought to marry one."

Hubert laughed. "Dear old Kenneth!" and there was pity in his voice.
"Perhaps I should, if I knew nothing of them really. But I'm afraid I
know too much."

His counsellor made no reply. He always knew when he had failed. He
also knew, from long experience, the only weapon that availed when once
the hard line came round Brett's weak lips. He waited prudently, while
they both smoked, and then he grasped it firmly.

"Well, it's a pity, Hubert," he said gaily, as though he had abandoned
his attempt and could afford by now to laugh at it, "because you'd not
only solve the sister problem but--look at the advertisement! 'Famous
Author Weds.' 'Mr. Hubert Brett, the Novelist, who is to be married
this week. Photo by Bassano.' 'Mr. Brett's beautiful young wife.'
'Mrs. Brett, wife of the celebrated author, opens a bazaar.'"

"Oh, shut up," cried Hubert quite youthfully, and made some pretence at
throwing a tobacco-pouch, but did not seem displeased.

"Then," went on the remorseless friend, "she is at parties every day,
and universally admired. Who is she? everybody naturally asks. Why,
the wife of Hubert Brett. Have you read his new novel? If not, do."

"You must think me a conceited fool," Hubert put in, "if you imagine I
swallow all that." Sometimes he suspected Boyd of sneering. Mrs.
Boyd, he knew, disliked him. She had often tried a snub. She was a
very brainless woman....

Kenneth Boyd dropped his manner of burlesque.

"All the same," he said, falling back into the old vein, "a wife _does_
a lot in one's career, you know. She has so much more time for making
friends. I always look on mine as my best canvasser! Why, man" (and
now he shamelessly threw off the mask), "you simply don't know what
you're missing. When I look back on my old single days, I hardly can
believe that it was me or how I could have been such an almighty ass as
to have wasted all those ghastly years. Perhaps, though, I shouldn't
enjoy our life now so much, if I'd not had a good mouthful of the
other. Good lord--the discomfort; the loneliness; the want of any one
who really cares; the feeling that there's nothing _permanent_; the
frantic writing round to make sure you won't have a lonely evening; the
sick despair when some one fails and you sit