The Lady of Big Shanty. F. Berkeley Smith

thoroughly awake now—her eyes shining, her lips parted in a satisfied smile. "You dear old friend," she murmured as she lay back upon the lace pillow. Dr. Sperry was coming at five.

      She tucked the letter beneath the coverlid and opened her husband's note. Suddenly her lips grew tense; she raised herself erect and stared at its contents:

      I shall pass the summer in the woods if I can find suitable place for you and Margaret. Make no arrangements which will conflict with this. Will write later.

      SAM.

      Again she read it, grasping little by little its whole import: all that it meant—all that it would mean to her.

      "Is he crazy?" she asked herself. "Does he suppose I intend to be dragged up there?"

      It was open defiance on his part; he had done this thing without consulting her and without her consent. It was preposterous and insulting in its brusqueness. He evidently intended to change her life—she, who loathed camp life more than anything in the world was to be forced to live in one all summer instead of reigning at Newport. She understood now his open defiance in leaving for the woods with Holcomb, and yet this last decision was far graver to her than his taking a dozen vacations. Still deeper in her heart there lurked the thought of being separated from the man who understood her. The young doctor's summer practice in Newport would no longer be a labour of love. It really meant exile to them both.

      At one o'clock she lunched with Margaret, hardly opening her lips through it all. She did not mention her husband's note—that she would reserve for the doctor. Between them she felt sure there could be arranged a way out of the situation. Again she devoured his note. Yes—"at five." The intervening hours seemed interminable.

      That these same hours were anything but irksome to Sperry would have been apparent to anyone who watched his use of them. The day, like other days during office hours, had seen a line of coupes waiting outside his door. Within had assembled a score of rich patients waiting their turn while they read the illustrated papers in strained silence—papers they had already seen. There was, of course, no conversation. A nervous cough now and then from some pretty widow, overheated in her sables, would break the awkward silence, or perhaps the voice of some wealthy little girl of five asking impossible explanations of her maid. During these hours the mere opening of the doctor's sanctum door was sufficient to instantly raise the hopes and the eyes of the unfortunates.

      For during these office hours Dr. Sperry had a habit of opening the door of this private sanctum sharply, and standing there for an instant, erect and faultlessly dressed, looking over the waiting ones; then, with a friendly nod, he would recognize, perhaps the widow—and the door closed again on the less fortunate.

      It was, of course, more than possible that the young woman was ill over her dressmaker's bill, rather than suffering from a weak heart or an opera cold. Sperry's ear, however, generally detected the cold. It was not his policy to say unpleasant things—especially to young widows who had recently inherited the goods and chattels of their hard-working husbands.

      "Ill!—nonsense, my dear lady; you look as fresh as a rose," he would begin in his fascinating voice—"a slight cold, but nothing serious, I assure you. You women are never blessed with prudence," etc., etc.

      To another: "Nervous prostration, my dear madame! Fudge—all imagination! Silly, really silly. You caught cold, of course, coming out of the heated theatre. Get a good rest, my dear Mrs. Jack—I want you to stay at least a month at Palm Beach, and no late suppers, and no champagne. No—not a drop," he adds severely. Then softening, "Well, then, half a glass. There, I've been generous, haven't I?" etc., etc., and so the day passed.

      On this particular day it was four o'clock before he had dismissed the last of his patients. Then he turned to his nurse with an impatient tone, as he searched hurriedly among the papers on his desk:

      "Find out what day I set for young Mrs. Van Ripley's operation."

      "Tuesday, sir," answered the nurse.

      "Then make it Thursday, and tell James to pack up my big valise and see that my golf things are in it and aboard the 9.18 in the morning."

      "Yes, sir," answered the girl, dipping her plump hands in a pink solution.

      All this time Alice had been haunted by the crawling hands of the clock. Luxurious as was her house of marble, it was a dreary domain at best to-day, as she sat in the small square room that lay hidden beyond the conservatory of cool palms and exotic plants screening one end of the dining room—a room her very own, and one to which only the chosen few were ever admitted; a jewel box of a room indeed, whose walls, ceiling and furniture were in richly carved teak. A corner, by the way, in which one could receive an old friend and be undisturbed. There was about it, too, a certain feeling of snug secrecy which appealed to her, particularly the low lounge before the Moorish fireplace of carved alabaster, which was well provided with soft pillows richly covered with rare embroideries. To-day none of these luxuries appealed to the woman seated among the cushions, gazing nervously at the fire. What absorbed her were the hands of the clock, crawling slowly toward five.

      * * * * *

      He did not keep her waiting. He was ahead of time, in fact—Blakeman leading him obsequiously through the fragrant conservatory.

      "Ah—it is you, doctor!" she exclaimed in feigned surprise as the butler started to withdraw.

      "Yes," he laughed; "I do hope I'm not disturbing you, dear lady. I was passing and dropped in."

      Alice put forth her hand to him frankly and received the warm pressure of his own. They waited until the sound of Blakeman's footsteps died away in the conservatory.

      "He's gone," she whispered nervously.

      "What has happened?" asked the doctor with sudden apprehension.

      "Everything," she replied womanlike, raising her eyes slowly to his own. Impulsively he placed both hands on her shoulders.

      "You are nervous," he said, his gaze riveted upon her parted lips. He felt her arms grow tense—she threw back her head stiffly and for a moment closed her eyes as if in pain.

      "Don't!" she murmured—"we must be good friends—good friends—do you understand?"

      "Forgive me," was his tactful reply. He led her to the corner of the

       lounge and with fresh courage covered her hand firmly with his own.

       "See—I am sensible," he smiled—"we understand each other, I think.

       Tell me what has happened."

      "Sam," she murmured faintly, freeing her hand—"Sam has dared to treat me like—like a child."

      "You! I don't believe it—you? Nonsense, dear friend."

      "You must help me," she returned in a vain effort to keep back the tears.

      "Has he been brutal to you?—jealous?—impossible!" and a certain query gleamed in his eyes.

      "Yes, brutal enough. I never believed him capable of it."

      "I believe you, but it seems strange—psychologically impossible.

       Why, he's not that kind of a man."

      Alice slipped her hand beneath a cushion, drew forth her husband's note and gave it to him.

      "Read that," she said, gazing doggedly into the fire, her chin in her hands.

      "'I may pass the summer in the woods'"—he read. "'Make no arrangements—' Well, what of it?" This came with a breath of relief. Alice raised her head wearily.

      "It means that my life will be different—a country boarding house or a camp up in those wretched woods, I suppose—an existence"—she went on, her voice regaining its old dominant note—"not life!"

      "And no more Newport for either of us," he muttered half audibly to himself with a tone of regret.

      Alice