ely, over and over, called himself a fool.

"I've made an ass of myself," he used to think, sorting out his cards
for solitaire and looking furtively at the thin face, with its lines of
wistful and faded beauty. At forty-two, a happy, busy woman, with a
sound digestion, will not look faded; on the contrary, she is at her
best--as far as looks are concerned! Eleanor was not happy; her
digestion was uncertain; she did not go into society, and she had no
real occupation, except to go every day to Mrs. O'Brien's and take Bingo
for a walk. Even her practicing had been pretty much given up, for fear
of disturbing the people on the floor below her.

"Why don't you have some plants around?" Maurice suggested; "they'd give
you something to do! I saw a lot of hyacinths growing in glasses, once;
I'll buy some bulbs for you."

"Oh, I'm one of the people flowers won't grow for," she said.

Mrs. Newbolt made a suggestion, too. "Pity you can't have Bingo to keep
you company. That's what comes of boarding. I knew a woman who boarded,
and she lost her teeth. Chambermaid threw 'em away. Come in and see me
any evening when Maurice is out."

As Maurice was frequently out, the invitation was sometimes accepted,
and it was on one of these occasions that Mrs. Newbolt, spreading out
her cards on the green baize of her solitaire table with fat, beringed
hands, made her suggestion:

"Eleanor, you've aged. I believe you're unhappy?"

"No, I'm not! Why should I be?"

"Well, I wouldn't blame you if you were," Mrs. Newbolt said. "'Course
you'd have brought it on yourself; I could have told you what to expect!
Your dear uncle Thomas used to say that, after a thing happened, I was
the one to tell people that they might have expected it. You see, I made
a point of bein' intelligent; of course I wasn't _too_ intelligent. A
man doesn't like that. You're gettin' gray, Eleanor. Pity you haven't
children. _He_ doesn't look very contented!--but men are men," said Mrs.
Newbolt.

"He _ought_ to be contented," Eleanor said, passionately; "I adore him!"

"You've got to interest him," her aunt said; "that's more important than
adorin' him! A man can buy a certain kind of adoration, but he can't
purchase interest."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Eleanor said, trembling.

"Well, if you don't, I'm sure I can't tell you," Mrs. Newbolt said,
despairingly; but she made one more attempt: "My dear father used to say
that the finest tribute a man