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this was the first and remains the only occasion in my life on which any married woman has ever revealed to me any serious altercation between herself and her husband,—though I have been informed by others that such revelations are not uncommon,—I was astounded.

"Why, my dear Cornelia!" I exclaimed, "that was a fighting word. Was it then that Oliver beat you?"

"No," she answered with a partially reassuring smile, "I wish he had. Oliver sulks when he is angry. I flash out what I feel, and have it over with. Oliver sulks and plots some revenge—some ingenious, horrid little revenge that he knows will make me furious."

I gasped inwardly—if one can do that; but I tried to play the part of the unruffled confessor. I was learning so much that was new to me about happy family life. "Well, what did he do next?" I asked.

"He took a box of cigars and a novel and went up to his room, to bed. At six o'clock in the