he bureau
while she fastened a bunch of violets to the bosom of her gown.

"I'm sorry I couldn't get up earlier, but there's a good deal of
excitement over a failure in Wall Street," I said. "Are you going out?"

Her hands fell from her bosom, and as she turned toward me, I saw that
she was dressed as though for a ball.

"Not to-night, Ben. I had an engagement, but I broke it because I wanted
to spend the evening with you. I thought we might have a nice cosy time
all by ourselves."

"What a shame, darling. I've promised Bradley I'd do a little work with
him in my study. He's coming at half-past eight and will probably keep
me till midnight. I'll have to hurry. Did you put on that gorgeous gown
just for me?"

"Just for you." There was an expression on her face, half humorous, half
resentful, that I had never seen there before. "What day is this, Ben?"
she asked, as I was about to enter my dressing-room.

"The nineteenth of November," I replied carelessly, looking back at her
with my hand on the door.

"The nineteenth of November," she echoed slowly, as if saying the words
to herself.

I was already on the threshold when light broke on me in a flash, and I
turned, blind with remorse, and seized her in my arms.

"Sally, Sally, I am a brute!"

She laughed a little, drawing away, not coming closer.

"Ben, are you happy?"

"As happy as a king. I'll telephone Bradley not to come."

"Is it important?"

"Yes, very important. That failure I told you of is a pretty serious
matter."

"Then let him come. All days are the same, after all, when one comes to
think of it."

Her hand went to the violets at her breast, and as my eyes followed it,
a sudden intuitive dread entered my mind like an impulse of rage.

"I intended to send you flowers, Sally, but in the rush, I forgot. Whose
are those you are wearing?"

She moved slightly, and the perfume of the violets floated from the
cloud of lace on her bosom.

"George sent them," she answered quietly.

Before she spoke I had known it--the curse of my life was to be that
George would always remember--and the intuitive dread I had felt
changed, while I stood there, to the dull ache of remorse.

"Take them off, and I'll get you others if there's a shop open in the
city," I said. Then, as she hesitated, wavering between doubt and
surprise, I left the room, descended the steps with a rush, and picking
up my hat, hurried in search of a belated florist who had not closed