ho do you mean by 'them'?
Shop-girls, and white slaves, and women who want to vote?"

"I mean the great army of the discontented," explained the Voice.

"And should I be discontented?" asked Jeanne. "Tell me why."

So, then and on many other occasions, Maddox told her why. It was one of
the best things he did.

People say, when the triangle forms, the husband always is the last to
see. But, if he loves his wife, he is the first. And after three years
of being married to Jeanne, and, before that, five years of wanting to
marry Jeanne, Jimmie loved her devotedly, entirely, slavishly. It was
the best thing _he_ did. So, when to Jeanne the change came, her husband
recognized it. What the cause was he could not fathom; he saw only that,
in spite of her impatient denials, she was discontented, restless,
unhappy. Thinking it might be that for too long they had gone "back to
the land," he suggested they might repeat their honeymoon in Paris. The
idea was received only with alarm. Concerning Jeanne, Jimmie decided
secretly to consult a doctor. Meanwhile he bought her a new hunter.

The awakening came one night at a dance at the country club. That
evening Jeanne was filled with unrest, and with Jimmie seemed
particularly aggrieved. Whatever he said gave offense; even his
eagerness to conciliate her was too obvious. With the other men who did
not dance, Jimmie was standing in the doorway when, over the heads of
those looking in from the veranda, he saw the white face and black eyes
of Maddox. Jimmie knew Maddox did not dance, at those who danced had
heard him jeer, and his presence caused him mild surprise. The editor,
leaning forward, unconscious that he was conspicuous, searched the
ballroom with his eyes. They were anxious, unsatisfied; they gave to his
pale face the look of one who is famished. Then suddenly his face lit
and he nodded eagerly. Following the direction of his eyes, Jimmie saw
his wife, over the shoulder of her partner, smiling at Maddox. Her face
was radiant; a great peace had descended upon it.

Jimmie knew just as surely as though Jeanne had told him. He walked out
and sat down on the low wall of the terrace with his back to the
club-house and his legs dangling. Below him in the moonlight lay the
great basin of the golf links, the white rectangle of the polo fields
with the gallows-like goals, and on a hill opposite, above the
tree-tops, the chimneys of his house. He was down for a tennis match the
next