ent chill, and manifestly in a state of
physical collapse. He went to bed at once; Selma brought blankets and a
hot-water bottle, and Dr. George Page was sent for. Dr. Page was the one
of Littleton's friends whom Selma had unsuccessfully yearned to know
better. She had never been able to understand him exactly, but he
fascinated her in spite of--perhaps because of--his bantering manner.
She found difficulty in reconciling it with his reputation for hard work
and masterly skill in his profession. She was constantly hoping to
extract from him something worthy of his large, solid face, with its
firm mouth and general expression of reserve force, but he seemed always
bent on talking nonsense in her society, and more than once the
disagreeable thought had occurred to her that he was laughing at her. He
had come to the house after her marriage now and then, but during the
past year or two she had scarcely seen him. The last time when they had
met, Selma had taxed him with his neglect of her.

His reply had been characteristically elusive and unsatisfactory. "I
will not attempt to frame excuses for my behavior, Mrs. Littleton, for
no reason which I could offer would be a justification."

But on the present occasion his greeting was grave and eager.

"Wilbur sick? I feared as much. I warned Pauline two months ago that he
was overworking, and only last week I told him that he would break down
if he did not go away for a fortnight's rest."

"I wish you had spoken to me."

Selma noted with satisfaction that there was no raillery in his manner
now. He bent his gaze on her searchingly.

"Have you not noticed that he looked ill and tired?"

She did not flinch. Why indeed should she? "A little. He tired himself,
I think, over the designs for Wetmore College, which he did in addition
to his other work. But since the award was made it has seemed to me that
he was looking better."

She started to lead the way to Wilbur's room, but the doctor paused, and
regarding her again fixedly, as though he had formed a resolution to
ferret the secrets of her soul, said laconically:

"Is he happy?"

"Happy?" she echoed.

"Has he anything on his mind, I mean--anything except his work?"

"Nothing--that is," she added, looking up at her inquisitor
with bright, interested eyes, "nothing except that he is very
conscientious--over-conscientious I sometimes think." To be bandying
psychological analyses with this able man was an edifying experi