It was indeed with a genuine sense of hurrying to a duty of wifely comradeship and with reproaches for her own blind selfishness that she started—but alas for her intent—three days upon the train were far, far too long for emotions as fluid as hers to be held constant by a reasoned purpose. She had time to brood. So instead of arriving in Detroit to sympathize and comfort him, she reached home late of an afternoon in a mood of simmering wrath, and meaning to arraign George Judson the instant she got an eye upon his recreant form. Favorable to this purpose was the fact that, unsummoned, George himself came home a bit early from his desk to soothe jaded nerves by a play with Junior.
"But why—why on earth did you come homer" he demanded when, in consequence of information imparted by the butler, he came bounding into his wife's room.
"Come home?" she iterated scornfully. "What else was there for me to do?" And she stared contemptuously at a husband who could not see that there was nothing else. "Don't you see why I couldn't stay—after you left?" Haughtily the wife with the sense of outrage so strong upon her swept the length of the room and back.
"I certainly do not," he snapped, and in the anger of his expression was also an appeal for her to let some little light of reason in upon
