-"

This time it was myself who grew bold. I said:

"You great ass! Do you think I'm going to let you make me make Felicia
cry?"

"Better have her cry," grumbled the other self, "than let her expose
herself unthinking to--well, all sorts of things." (One would have
thought to hear him that Monty Saunders was the measles!)

We were silent a while, and in my imagination I saw again the
distressing spectacle of Felicia weeping. I suppose there is no man
who has been married a year who has not made his Felicia cry.

You cannot explain how the terrible thing came about. It may be you
had a moment of surface impatience. Generally it's something less
definite than that--a bit of chaff at an untimely moment, an
indiscreet question put forth in a spirit of the friendliest
curiosity.

"Why," for instance you may have said, "isn't dinner ready?"

You didn't mind its not being ready in the least, but, not being used
to having dinners of your own, you were amused and interested to know
the cause of its lateness. And there before your eyes the unbelievable
has happened, Felicia is in tears, and it is your fault.

You are like a landsman who has pulled an innocent-looking plug out of
the bottom of a boat and sees it fill and founder before his eyes; you
feel like a man who lights a match and lo! his house is in flames;
with such horror and bewilderment does the sight of a weeping Felicia
fill you. Guilt and bewilderment struggle with one another, as her
mouth quivers pitifully and her eyes fill with slow tears. She turns
away to battle with them, and, instead of holding your tongue, you
choose from among all the silly, inadequate things there are in the
world to say, "What's the matter, dear?"

"I--I--left--a book in--my room," answers Felicia, and she pushes past
you and goes out of the door, and, though you don't know it at the
time, she is as bewildered as you are.

You walk up and down the floor two or three times, you open the door
and shut it, finally you can't stand it any longer, you must find out
how Felicia does. You go up to your room, and there on the bed is what
is left of the gallant, saucy Felicia you know. It is a crumpled
little heap, and you can see only a knot of disordered hair and
shaking shoulders, and as if this wasn't bad enough, there is added
the sound of muffled sobs. You go up to her and put a beseeching hand
on her shoulder.

"Felicia," you implore. Then from the depths of the pillow come the