The answer--with slight variations--was Mr. A's neat little
apology, repeated by Mr. B.

"I am very sorry. Mrs. B has got a bad headache. She is subject
to bad headaches. She begs me to make her excuses."

Mr. and Mrs. Germaine glanced at one another. The husband's face
plainly expressed the suspicion which this second apology had
roused in his mind. The wife was steady and calm. An interval
passed--a silent interval. Mr. A and Mr. B retired together
guiltily into a corner. My wife and I looked at the pictures.

Mrs. Germaine was the first to relieve us from our own
intolerable silence. Two more guests, it appeared, were still
wanting to complete the party. "Shall we have dinner at once,
George?" she said to her husband. "Or shall we wait for Mr. and
Mrs. C?"

"We will wait five minutes," he answered, shortly--with his eye
on Mr. A and Mr. B, guiltily secluded in their corner.

The drawing-room door opened. We all knew that a third married
lady was expected; we all looked toward the door in unutterable
anticipation. Our unexpressed hopes rested silently on the
possible appearance of Mrs. C. Would that admirable, but unknown,
woman, at once charm and relieve us by her presence? I shudder as
I write it. Mr. C walked into the room--and walked in, _alone_.

Mr. Germaine suddenly varied his formal inquiry in receiving the
new guest.

"Is your wife ill?" he asked.

Mr. C was an elderly man; Mr. C had lived (judging by
appearances) in the days when the old-fashioned laws of
politeness were still in force. He discovered his two married
brethren in their corner, unaccompanied by _their_ wives; and he
delivered his apology for _his_ wife with the air of a man who
felt unaffectedly ashamed of it:

"Mrs. C is so sorry. She has got such a bad cold. She does so
regret not being able to accompany me."

At this third apology, Mr. Germaine's indignation forced its way
outward into expression in words.

"Two bad colds and one bad headache," he said, with ironical
politeness. "I don't know how your wives agree, gentlemen, when
they are well. But when they are ill, their unanimity is
wonderful!"

The dinner was announced as that sharp saying passed his lips.

I had the honor of taking Mrs. Germaine to the dining-room. Her
sense of the implied insult offered to her by the wives of her
husband's friends only showed itself in a trembling, a very
slight trembling, of the hand that rested on my arm. My interest
in her increased tenfold. Only a woman who had been accustomed to
suffer, who had been broken and disciplined to self-restraint,
could have endured the moral martyrdom inflicted on her as _this_
woman endured it, from the beginning of the evening to the end.

Am I using the language of exaggeration when I write of my
hostess in these terms? Look at the circumstances as they struck
two strangers like my wife and myself.

Here was the first dinner party which Mr. and Mrs. Germaine had
given since their marriage. Three of Mr. Germaine's friends, all
married men, had been invited with their wives to meet Mr.
Germaine's wife, and had (evidently) accepted the invitation
without reserve. What discoveries had taken place between the
giving of the invitation and the giving of the dinner it was
impossible to say. The one thing plainly discernible was, that in
the interval the three wives had agreed in the resolution to
leave their husbands to represent them at Mrs. Germaine's table;
and, more amazing still, the husbands had so far approved of the
grossly discourteous conduct of the wives as to consent to make
the most insultingly trivial excuses for their absence. Could any
crueler slur than this have been cast on a woman at the outs et
of her married life, before the face of her husband, and in the
presence of two strangers from another country? Is "martyrdom"
too big a word to use in describing what a sensitive person must
have suffered, subjected to such treatment as this? Well, I think
not.

We took our places at the dinner-table. Don't ask me to describe
that most miserable of mortal meetings, that weariest and
dreariest of human festivals! It is quite bad enough to remember
that evening--it is indeed.

My wife and I did our best to keep the conversation moving as
easily and as harmlessly as might be. I may say that we really
worked hard. Nevertheless, our success was not very encouraging.
Try as we might to overlook them, there were the three empty
places of the three absent women, speaking in their own dismal
language for themselves. Try as we might to resist it, we all
felt the one sad conclusion which those empty places persisted in
forcing on our minds. It was surely too plain that some terrible
report, affecting the character of the unhappy woman at the head
of the table, had unexpectedly come to light, and had at one blow


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