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 experience despite her concern for Wilbur.

“I see,” he answered dryly, and for an instant there was a twinkle in his eyes.  Yet he added, “To make a correct diagnosis it is important to know all the facts of the case.”

“Of course,” she said solemnly, reassured in her belief that she was being consulted and was taking part in the treatment of her husband’s malady.

She accompanied Dr. Page to Wilbur’s bed-side.  He conversed in a cheery tone with his friend while he took his temperature and made what seemed to her a comparatively brief examination.  Selma jumped to the conclusion that there was nothing serious the matter.  The moment they had left the room, the doctor’s manner changed, and he said with alert concern: 

“Your husband is very ill; he has pneumonia.  I am going to send for a nurse.”