got some sort of notion in her head
concerning the eternal rights of women; and--you understand--we meet in
the morning at the breakfast table."

The old gentleman lifted his shaggy eyebrows, protruded his thick nether
lip, and tapped the arms of his chair with his cushioned fingertips.

"What have you been doing to her, Pontellier?"

"Doing! Parbleu!"

"Has she," asked the Doctor, with a smile, "has she been associating
of late with a circle of pseudo-intellectual women--super-spiritual
superior beings? My wife has been telling me about them."

"That's the trouble," broke in Mr. Pontellier, "she hasn't been
associating with any one. She has abandoned her Tuesdays at home, has
thrown over all her acquaintances, and goes tramping about by herself,
moping in the street-cars, getting in after dark. I tell you she's
peculiar. I don't like it; I feel a little worried over it."

This was a new aspect for the Doctor. "Nothing hereditary?" he asked,
seriously. "Nothing peculiar about her family antecedents, is there?"

"Oh, no, indeed! She comes of sound old Presbyterian Kentucky stock. The
old gentleman, her father, I have heard, used to atone for his weekday
sins with his Sunday devotions. I know for a fact, that his race horses
literally ran away with the prettiest bit of Kentucky farming land
I ever laid eyes upon. Margaret--you know Margaret--she has all the
Presbyterianism undiluted. And the youngest is something of a vixen. By
the way, she gets married in a couple of weeks from now."

"Send your wife up to the wedding," exclaimed the Doctor, foreseeing a
happy solution. "Let her stay among her own people for a while; it will
do her good."

"That's what I want her to do. She won't go to the marriage. She says
a wedding is one of the most lamentable spectacles on earth. Nice thing
for a woman to say to her husband!" exclaimed Mr. Pontellier, fuming
anew at the recollection.

"Pontellier," said the Doctor, after a moment's reflection, "let your
wife alone for a while. Don't bother her, and don't let her bother
you. Woman, my dear friend, is a very peculiar and delicate organism--a
sensitive and highly organized woman, such as I know Mrs. Pontellier to
be, is especially peculiar. It would require an inspired psychologist to
deal successfully with them. And when ordinary fellows like you and me
attempt to cope with their idiosyncrasies the result is bungling. Most
women are moody and whimsical. This is some passing