l to his officers in the
long room on the second floor."

The first part of my sentence was a deliberate falsehood. I had no
reason to believe Dicky would not be at his studio all day, but I had
resolved that no one should speak to my husband on the subject of the
secret which his past and that of Lillian Gale shared until I had had
a chance to talk to him about it.

I do not know when a simple problem has so perplexed me as did the
dilemma I faced while sitting opposite my mother-in-law at lunch in
Fraunces's Tavern.

With the obstinacy of a spoiled child the elder Mrs. Graham was
persisting in sitting with her heavy coat on while she ate her
luncheon, although our table was next to the big, old fireplace, in
which a good fire was burning. Indeed, it was the table's location,
which she had selected herself, that was the cause of her obstinacy.
She had construed an innocent remark of mine into a slur upon her
choice, and had evidently decided to wear her coat to emphasize the
fact that in spite of the fire she was none too warm, and there she
had sat all through lunch with her heavy coat on.

As I watched the beads of perspiration upon her forehead, and her
furtive dabbing at them with her handkerchief, I realized that
something must be done. I saw that she would soon be in a condition to
receive a chill, which might prove fatal.

Suddenly her imperious voice broke into my thoughts.

"Where is the Long Room of which you spoke? On the second floor?"

"Yes. Would you like to see it?"

"Very much." She rose from her chair, crossed the dining room into
the hall and ascended the staircase, and I followed her upward, noting
again, with a quick remorsefulness, her slow step, the way she leaned
upon the stair rail for support and her quickened breathing as she
neared the top. It was a little thing, after all, I told myself
sharply, to subordinate my individuality and cater to her whims. I
resolved to be more considerate of her in the future. But my native
caution made me make a reservation. I would yield to her wishes
whenever my self-respect would let me do so. I had a shrewd notion
that a person who would cater to every whim of my husband's mother
would be little better than a slave.

She spent so much time over the old letters in Washington's
handwriting, the snuff boxes and keys and coins with which the cases
were filled that I was alarmed lest she should over-tire herself. But
I did not dare to venture the sugg