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The Philosopher's Joke .......................................................................................................................................1

Jerome K. Jerome .....................................................................................................................................1

Myself, I do not believe this story. Six persons are persuaded of its truth; and the hope of these six is to

convince themselves it was an hallucination. Their difficulty is there are six of them. Each one alone

perceives clearly that it never could have been. Unfortunately, they are close friends, and cannot get away

from one another; and when they meet and look into each other's eyes the thing takes shape again.

The one who told it to me, and who immediately wished he had not, was Armitage. He told it to me one night

when he and I were the only occupants of the Club smokingroom. His telling meas he explained

afterwardswas an impulse of the moment. Sense of the thing had been pressing upon him all that day with

unusual persistence; and the idea had occurred to him, on my entering the room, that the flippant scepticism

with which an essentially commonplace mind like my ownhe used the words in no offensive

sensewould be sure to regard the affair might help to direct his own attention to its more absurd aspect. I

am inclined to think it did. He thanked me for dismissing his entire narrative as the delusion of a disordered

brain, and begged me not to mention the matter to another living soul. I promised; and I may as well here

observe that I do not call this mentioning the matter. Armitage is not the man's real name; it does not even

begin with an A. You might read this story and dine next to him the same evening: you would know nothing.

Also, of course, I did not consider myself debarred from speaking about it, discreetly, to Mrs. Armitage, a

charming woman. She burst into tears at the first mention of the thing. It took me all I knew to tranquillize

her. She said that when she did not think about the thing she could be happy. She and Armitage never spoke

of it to one another; and left to themselves her opinion was that eventually they might put remembrance

behind them. She wished they were not quite so friendly with the Everetts. Mr. and Mrs. Everett had both

dreamt precisely the same dream; that is, assuming it was a dream. Mr. Everett was not the sort of person that

a clergyman ought, perhaps, to know; but as Armitage would always argue: for a teacher of Christianity to

withdraw his friendship from a man because that man was somewhat of a sinner would be inconsistent.

Rather should he remain his friend and seek to influence him. They dined with the Everetts regularly on

Tuesdays, and sitting opposite the Everetts, it seemed impossible to accept as a fact that all four of them at

the same time and in the same manner had fallen victims to the same illusion. I think I succeeded in leaving

her more hopeful. She acknowledged that the story, looked at from the point of common sense, did sound

ridiculous; and threatened me that if I ever breathed a word of it to anyone, she never would speak to me

By a curious coincidence I happened at the time to be one of Everett's directors on a Company he had just

promoted for taking over and developing the Red Sea Coasting trade. I lunched with him the following

Sunday. He is an interesting talker, and curiosity to discover how so shrewd a man would account for his

connection with so insaneso impossible a fancy, prompted me to hint my knowledge of the story. The

manner both of him and of his wife changed suddenly. They wanted to know who it was had told me. I

refused the information, because it was evident they would have been angry with him. Everett's theory was

that one of them had dreamt itprobably Camelfordand by hypnotic suggestion had conveyed to the rest

of them the impression that they had dreamt it also. He added that but for one slight incident he should have

ridiculed from the very beginning the argument that it could have been anything else than a dream. But what

that incident was he would not tell me. His object, as he explained, was not to dwell upon the business, but to

try and forget it. Speaking as a friend, he advised me, likewise, not to cackle about the matter any more than I

could help, lest trouble should arise with regard to my director's fees. His way of putting things is

It was at the Everetts', later on, that I met Mrs. Camelford, one of the handsomest women I have ever set eyes

upon. It was foolish of me, but my memory for names is weak. I forgot that Mr. and Mrs. Camelford were the

other two concerned, and mentioned the story as a curious tale I had read years ago in an old Miscellany. I

had reckoned on it to lead me into a discussion with her on platonic friendship. She jumped up from her chair

and gave me a look. I remembered then, and could have bitten out my tongue. It took me a long while to

make my peace, but she came round in the end, consenting to attribute my blunder to mere stupidity. She was

quite convinced herself, she told me, that the thing was pure imagination. It was only when in company with

the others that any doubt as to this crossed her mind. Her own idea was that, if everybody would agree never

to mention the matter again, it would end in their forgetting it. She supposed it was her husband who had

been my informant: he was just that sort of ass. She did not say it unkindly. She said when she was first

married, ten years ago, few people had a more irritating effect upon her than had Camelford; but that since

she had seen more of other men she had come to respect him. I like to hear a woman speak well of her

husband. It is a departure which, in my opinion, should be more encouraged than it is. I assured her

Camelford was not the culprit; and on the understanding that I might come to see hernot too oftenon her

Thursdays, I agreed with her that the best thing I could do would be to dismiss the subject from my mind and

I had never talked much with Camelford before that time, though I had often seen him at the Club. He is a

strange man, of whom many stories are told. He writes journalism for a living, and poetry, which he

publishes at his own expense, apparently for recreation. It occurred to me that his theory would at all events

be interesting; but at first he would not talk at all, pretending to ignore the whole affair, as idle nonsense. I

had almost despaired of drawing him out, when one evening, of his own accord, he asked me if I thought

Mrs. Armitage, with whom he knew I was on terms of friendship, still attached importance to the thing. On

my expressing the opinion that Mrs. Armitage was the most troubled of the group, he was irritated; and urged

me to leave the rest of them alone and devote whatever sense I might possess to persuading her in particular

that the entire thing was and could be nothing but pure myth. He confessed frankly that to him it was still a

mystery. He could easily regard it as chimera, but for one slight incident. He would not for a long while say

what that was, but there is such a thing as perseverance, and in the end I dragged it out of him. This is what

"We happened by chance to find ourselves alone in the conservatory, that night of the ballwe six. Most of

the crowd had already left. The last 'extra' was being played: the music came to us faintly. Stooping to pick

up Jessica's fan, which she had let fall to the ground, something shining on the tesselated pavement

underneath a group of palms suddenly caught my eye. We had not said a word to one another; indeed, it was

the first evening we had any of us met one anotherthat is, unless the thing was not a dream. I picked it up.

The others gathered round me, and when we looked into one another's eyes we understood: it was a broken

winecup, a curious goblet of Bavarian glass. It was the goblet out of which we had all dreamt that we had

I have put the story together as it seems to me it must have happened. The incidents, at all events, are facts.

Things have since occurred to those concerned affording me hope that they will never read it. I should not

*** Six persons sat round the great oak table in the wainscoted _Speise Saal_ of that cosy hostelry, the

Kneiper Hof at Konigsberg. It was late into the night. Under ordinary circumstances they would have been in

bed, but having arrived by the last train from Dantzic, and having supped on German fare, it had seemed to

them discreeter to remain awhile in talk. The house was strangely silent. The rotund landlord, leaving their

candles ranged upon the sideboard, had wished them "Gute Nacht" an hour before. The spirit of the ancient

Here in this very chamber, if rumour is to be believed, Emmanuel Kant himself had sat discoursing many a

time and oft. The walls, behind which for more than forty years the little peakfaced man had thought and

worked, rose silvered by the moonlight just across the narrow way; the three high windows of the _Speise

Saal_ give out upon the old Cathedral tower beneath which now he rests. Philosophy, curious concerning

human phenomena, eager for experience, unhampered by the limitation Convention would impose upon all

"Not into future events," remarked the Rev. Nathaniel Armitage, "it is better they should be hidden from us.

But into the future of ourselvesour temperament, our characterI think we ought to be allowed to see. At

twenty we are one individual; at forty, another person entirely, with other views, with other interests, a

different outlook upon life, attracted by quite other attributes, repelled by the very qualities that once attracted

"I am glad to hear somebody else say that," observed Mrs. Everett, in her gentle, sympathetic voice. "I have

thought it all myself so often. Sometimes I have blamed myself, yet how can one help it: the things that

appeared of importance to us, they become indifferent; new voices call to us; the idols we once worshipped,

"If under the head of idols you include me," laughed the jovial Mr. Everett, "don't hesitate to say so." He was

a large redfaced gentleman, with small twinkling eyes, and a mouth both strong and sensuous. "I didn't

make my feet myself. I never asked anybody to take me for a stainedglass saint. It is not I who have

"I know, dear, it is I," his thin wife answered with a meek smile. "I was beautiful, there was no doubt about it,

"You were, my dear," agreed her husband: "As a girl few could hold a candle to you."

"It was the only thing about me that you valued, my beauty," continued his wife; "and it went so quickly. I

"But there is a beauty of the mind, of the soul," remarked the Rev. Nathaniel Armitage, "that to some men is

The soft eyes of the faded lady shone for a moment with the light of pleasure. "I am afraid Dick is not of that

"Well, as I said just now about my feet," answered her husband genially, "I didn't make myself. I always have

been a slave to beauty and always shall be. There would be no sense in pretending among chums that you

haven't lost your looks, old girl." He laid his fine hand with kindly intent upon her bony shoulder. "But there

is no call for you to fret yourself as if you had done it on purpose. No one but a lover imagines a woman

Involuntarily she glanced to where Mrs. Camelford sat with elbows resting on the table; and involuntarily

also the small twinkling eyes of her husband followed in the same direction. There is a type that reaches its

prime in middle age. Mrs. Camelford, _nee_ Jessica Dearwood, at twenty had been an uncannylooking

creature, the only thing about her appealing to general masculine taste having been her magnificent eyes, and

even these had frightened more than they had allured. At forty, Mrs. Camelford might have posed for the

"Yes, he's a cunning old joker is Time," murmured Mr. Everett, almost inaudibly.

"What ought to have happened," said Mrs. Armitage, while with deft fingers rolling herself a cigarette, "was

"Oh, why may one not sometimes speak the truth?" answered his wife petulantly. "You and I are utterly

unsuited to one anothereverybody sees it. At nineteen it seemed to me beautiful, holy, the idea of being a

clergyman's wife, fighting by his side against evil. Besides, you have changed since then. You were human,

my dear Nat, in those days, and the best dancer I had ever met. It was your dancing was your chief attraction

for me as likely as not, if I had only known myself. At nineteen how can one know oneself?"

"I know we did, passionatelythen; but we don't now." She laughed a little bitterly. "Poor Nat! I am only

another trial added to your long list. Your beliefs, your ideals are meaningless to memere narrowminded

dogmas, stifling thought. Nellie was the wife Nature had intended for you, so soon as she had lost her beauty

and with it all her worldly ideas. Fate was maturing her for you, if only we had known. As for me, I ought to

have been the wife of an artist, of a poet." Unconsciously a glance from her ever restless eyes flashed across

the table to where Horatio Camelford sat, puffing clouds of smoke into the air from a huge black meerschaum

pipe. "Bohemia is my country. Its poverty, its struggle would have been a joy to me. Breathing its free air,

Horatio Camelford leant back with eyes fixed on the oaken ceiling. "It is a mistake," said Horatio Camelford,

The handsome Mrs. Camelford laughed goodnaturedly. "The artist," remarked Mrs. Camelford, "from what

I have seen of him would never know the inside of his shirt from the outside if his wife was not there to take

"His wearing it inside out would not make much difference to the world," argued her husband. "The sacrifice

"Well, you at all events do not appear to have sacrificed much, my boy," came the breezy voice of Dick

"When I am fortyone, with all the best years of my life behind me," answered the Poet. "Speaking as a man,

I have nothing to regret. No one could have had a better wife; my children are charming. I have lived the

peaceful existence of the successful citizen. Had I been true to my trust I should have gone out into the

wilderness, the only possible home of the teacher, the prophet. The artist is the bridegroom of Art. Marriage

"Time brings its revenges, you see," laughed Mrs. Camelford. "At twenty that fellow threatened to commit

suicide if I would not marry him, and cordially disliking him I consented. Now twenty years later, when I am

just getting used to him, he calmly turns round and says he would have been better without me."

"I heard something about it at the time," said Mrs. Armitage. "You were very much in love with somebody

"Is not the conversation assuming a rather dangerous direction?" laughed Mrs. Camelford.

"I was thinking the same thing, "agreed Mrs. Everett. "One would imagine some strange influence had seized

"I am afraid I was the original culprit," admitted the Reverend Nathaniel. "This room is becoming quite

The ancient lamp suspended from its smokegrimed beam uttered a faint, gurgling sob, and spluttered out.

The shadow of the old Cathedral tower crept in and stretched across the room, now illuminated only by

occasional beams from the cloudcurtained moon. At the other end of the table sat a peakfaced little

"Forgive me," said the little gentleman. He spoke in English, with a strong accent. "But it seems to me here is

The six fellowtravellers round the table looked at one another, but none spoke. The idea that came to each

of them, as they explained to one another later, was that without remembering it they had taken their candles

"It would greatly assist me," continued the little peakfaced gentleman, "in experiments I am conducting into

the phenomena of human tendencies, if you would allow me to put your lives back twenty years."

Still no one of the six replied. It seemed to them that the little old gentleman must have been sitting there

"Judging from your talk this evening," continued the peakfaced little gentleman, "you should welcome my

offer. You appear to me to be one and all of exceptional intelligence. You perceive the mistakes that you have

made: you understand the causes. The future veiled, you could not help yourselves. What I propose to do is to

put you back twenty years. You will be boys and girls again, but with this difference: that the knowledge of

"Come," urged the old gentleman, "the thing is quite simple of accomplishment. Asas a certain philosopher

has clearly proved: the universe is only the result of our own perceptions. By what may appear to you to be

magicby what in reality will be simply a chemical operationI remove from your memory the events of

the last twenty years, with the exception of what immediately concerns your own personalities. You will

retain all knowledge of the changes, physical and mental, that will be in store for you; all else will pass from

The little old gentleman took a small phial from his waistcoat pocket, and, filling one of the massive

wineglasses from a decanter, measured into it some halfadozen drops. Then he placed the glass in the

"Youth is a good time to go back to," said the peakfaced little gentleman, with a smile. "Twenty years ago,

It was Everett who drank first. He drank it with his little twinkling eyes fixed hungrily on the proud

handsome face of Mrs. Camelford; and then handed the glass to his wife. It was she perhaps who drank from

it most eagerly. Her life with Everett, from the day when she had risen from a bed of sickness stripped of all

her beauty, had been one bitter wrong. She drank with the wild hope that the thing might possibly be not a

dream; and thrilled to the touch of the man she loved, as reaching across the table he took the glass from her

hand. Mrs. Armitage was the fourth to drink. She took the cup from her husband, drank with a quiet smile,

and passed it on to Camelford. And Camelford drank, looking at nobody, and replaced the glass upon the

"Come," said the little old gentleman to Mrs. Camelford, "you are the only one left. The whole thing will be

"I have no wish to drink," said Mrs. Camelford, and her eyes sought those of her husband, but he would not

"Come," again urged the Figure. And then Camelford looked at her and laughed drily.

*** It is from the narrative as Armitage told it to me that night in the Club smokingroom that I am taking

most of my material. It seemed to him that all things began slowly to rise upward, leaving him stationary, but

with a great pain as though the inside of him were being torn awaythe same sensation greatly exaggerated,

so he likened it, as descending in a lift. But around him all the time was silence and darkness unrelieved.

After a period that might have been minutes, that might have been years, a faint light crept towards him. It

grew stronger, and into the air which now fanned his cheek there stole the sound of faroff music. The light

and the music both increased, and one by one his senses came back to him. He was seated on a low cushioned

bench beneath a group of palms. A young girl was sitting beside him, but her face was turned away from him.

She turned her face towards him. It was the most spiritually beautiful face he had ever seen. "I am in the same

predicament," she laughed. "You had better write yours on my programme, and I will write mine on yours."

So they wrote upon each other's programme and exchanged again. The name she had written was Alice

He had never seen her before, that he could remember. Yet at the back of his mind there dwelt the haunting

knowledge of her. Somewhere long ago they had met, talked together. Slowly, as one recalls a dream, it came

back to him. In some other life, vague, shadowy, he had married this woman. For the first few years they had

loved each other; then the gulf had opened between them, widened. Stern, strong voices had called to him to

lay aside his selfish dreams, his boyish ambitions, to take upon his shoulders the yoke of a great duty. When

more than ever he had demanded sympathy and help, this woman had fallen away from him. His ideals but

irritated her. Only at the cost of daily bitterness had he been able to resist her endeavours to draw him from

his path. A facethat of a woman with soft eyes, full of helpfulness, shone through the mist of his

dreamthe face of a woman who would one day come to him out of the Future with outstretched hands that

"Shall we not dance?" said the voice beside him. "I really won't sit out a waltz."

They hurried into the ballroom. With his arm about her form, her wondrous eyes shyly, at rare moments,

seeking his, then vanishing again behind their drooping lashes, the brain, the mind, the very soul of the young

man passed out of his own keeping. She complimented him in her bewitching manner, a delightful blending

"You dance extremely well," she told him. "You may ask me for another, later on."

The words flashed out from that dim haunting future. "Your dancing was your chief attraction for me, as

All that evening and for many months to come the Present and the Future fought within him. And the

experience of Nathaniel Armitage, divinity student, was the experience likewise of Alice Blatchley, who had

fallen in love with him at first sight, having found him the divinest dancer she had ever whirled with to the

sensuous music of the waltz; of Horatio Camelford, journalist and minor poet, whose journalism earned him a

bare income, but at whose minor poetry critics smiled; of Jessica Dearwood, with her glorious eyes, and

muddy complexion, and her wild hopeless passion for the big, handsome, ruddybearded Dick Everett, who,

knowing it, only laughed at her in his kindly, lordly way, telling her with frank brutalness that the woman

who was not beautiful had missed her vocation in life; of that scheming, conquering young gentleman

himself, who at twentyfive had already made his mark in the City, shrewd, clever, coolheaded as a fox,

except where a pretty face and shapely hand or ankle were concerned; of Nellie Fanshawe, then in the pride

of her ravishing beauty, who loved none but herself, whose claymade gods were jewels, and fine dresses

That evening of the ball each clung to the hope that this memory of the future was but a dream. They had

been introduced to one another; had heard each other's names for the first time with a start of recognition; had

avoided one another's eyes; had hastened to plunge into meaningless talk; till that moment when young

Camelford, stooping to pick up Jessica's fan, had found that broken fragment of the Rhenish wineglass.

Then it was that conviction refused to be shaken off, that knowledge of the future had to be sadly accepted.

What they had not foreseen was that knowledge of the future in no way affected their emotions of the present.

Nathaniel Armitage grew day by day more hopelessly in love with bewitching Alice Blatchley. The thought

of her marrying anyone elsethe longhaired, priggish Camelford in particularsent the blood boiling

through his veins; added to which sweet Alice, with her arms about his neck, would confess to him that life

without him would be a misery hardly to be endured, that the thought of him as the husband of another

womanof Nellie Fanshawe in particularwas madness to her. It was right perhaps, knowing what they

did, that they should say goodbye to one another. She would bring sorrow into his life. Better far that he

should put her away from him, that she should die of a broken heart, as she felt sure she would. How could

he, a fond lover, inflict this suffering upon her? He ought of course to marry Nellie Fanshawe, but he could

not bear the girl. Would it not be the height of absurdity to marry a girl he strongly disliked because twenty

years hence she might be more suitable to him than the woman he now loved and who loved him?

Nor could Nellie Fanshawe bring herself to discuss without laughter the suggestion of marrying on a

hundredandfifty a year a curate that she positively hated. There would come a time when wealth would be

indifferent to her, when her exalted spirit would ask but for the satisfaction of selfsacrifice. But that time

had not arrived. The emotions it would bring with it she could not in her present state even imagine. Her

whole present being craved for the things of this world, the things that were within her grasp. To ask her to

forego them now because later on she would not care for them! it was like telling a schoolboy to avoid the

tuckshop because, when a man, the thought of stickjaw would be nauseous to him. If her capacity for

Alice Blatchley, when her lover was not by, gave herself many a headache trying to think the thing out

logically. Was it not foolish of her to rush into this marriage with dear Nat? At forty she would wish she had

married somebody else. But most women at fortyshe judged from conversation round about herwished

they had married somebody else. If every girl at twenty listened to herself at forty there would be no more

marriage. At forty she would be a different person altogether. That other elderly person did not interest her.

To ask a young girl to spoil her life purely in the interests of this middleaged partyit did not seem right.

Besides, whom else was she to marry? Camelford would not have her; he did not want her then; he was not

going to want her at forty. For practical purposes Camelford was out of the question. She might marry

somebody else altogetherand fare worse. She might remain a spinster: she hated the mere name of spinster.

The inkyfingered woman journalist that, if all went well, she might become: it was not her idea. Was she

acting selfishly? Ought she, in his own interests, to refuse to marry dear Nat? Nelliethe little catwho

would suit him at forty, would not have him. If he was going to marry anyone but Nellie he might as well

marry her, Alice. A bachelor clergyman! it sounded almost improper. Nor was dear Nat the type. If she threw

Camelford at forty, under the influence of favourable criticism, would have persuaded himself he was a

heavensent prophet, his whole life to be beautifully spent in the saving of mankind. At twenty he felt he

wanted to live. Weirdlooking Jessica, with her magnificent eyes veiling mysteries, was of more importance

to him than the rest of the species combined. Knowledge of the future in his ease only spurred desire. The

muddy complexion would grow pink and white, the thin limbs round and shapely; the now scornful eyes

would one day light with love at his coming. It was what he had once hoped: it was what he now knew. At

forty the artist is stronger than the man; at twenty the man is stronger than the artist.

An uncanny creature, so most folks would have described Jessica Dearwood. Few would have imagined her

developing into the goodnatured, easygoing Mrs. Camelford of middle age. The animal, so strong within

her at twenty, at thirty had burnt itself out. At eighteen, madly, blindly in love with redbearded,

deepvoiced Dick Everett she would, had he whistled to her, have flung herself gratefully at his feet, and this

in spite of the knowledge forewarning her of the miserable life he would certainly lead her, at all events until

her slowly developing beauty should give her the whip hand of himby which time she would have come to

despise him. Fortunately, as she told herself, there was no fear of his doing so, the future notwithstanding.

Nellie Fanshawe's beauty held him as with chains of steel, and Nellie had no intention of allowing her rich

prize to escape her. Her own lover, it was true, irritated her more than any man she had ever met, but at least

he would afford her refuge from the bread of charity. Jessica Dearwood, an orphan, had been brought up by a

distant relative. She had not been the child to win affection. Of silent, brooding nature, every thoughtless

incivility had been to her an insult, a wrong. Acceptance of young Camelford seemed her only escape from a

life that had become to her a martyrdom. At fortyone he would wish he had remained a bachelor; but at

thirtyeight that would not trouble her. She would know herself he was much better off as he was.

Meanwhile, she would have come to like him, to respect him. He would be famous, she would be proud of

him. Crying into her pillowshe could not help itfor love of handsome Dick, it was still a comfort to

reflect that Nellie Fanshawe, as it were, was watching over her, protecting her from herself.

Dick, as he muttered to himself a dozen times a day, ought to marry Jessica. At thirtyeight she would be his

ideal. He looked at her as she was at eighteen, and shuddered. Nellie at thirty would be plain and

uninteresting. But when did consideration of the future ever cry halt to passion: when did a lover ever pause

thinking of the morrow? If her beauty was to quickly pass, was not that one reason the more urging him to

Nellie Fanshawe at forty would be a saint. The prospect did not please her: she hated saints. She would love

the tiresome, solemn Nathaniel: of what use was that to her now? He did not desire her; he was in love with

Alice, and Alice was in love with him. What would be the senseeven if they all agreedin the three of

them making themselves miserable for all their youth that they might be contented in their old age? Let age

fend for itself and leave youth to its own instincts. Let elderly saints sufferit was their _metier_and

youth drink the cup of life. It was a pity Dick was the only "catch" available, but he was young and

Another point, a very serious point, had been overlooked. All that had arrived to them in that dim future of

the past had happened to them as the results of their making the marriages they had made. To what fate other

roads would lead their knowledge could not tell them. Nellie Fanshawe had become at forty a lovely

character. Might not the hard life she had led with her husbanda life calling for continual sacrifice, for

daily selfcontrolhave helped towards this end? As the wife of a poor curate of high moral principles,

would the same result have been secured? The fever that had robbed her of her beauty and turned her

thoughts inward had been the result of sitting out on the balcony of the Paris Opera House with an Italian

Count on the occasion of a fancy dress ball. As the wife of an East End clergyman the chances are she would

have escaped that fever and its purifying effects. Was there not danger in the position: a supremely beautiful

young woman, worldlyminded, hungry for pleasure, condemned to a life of poverty with a man she did not

care for? The influence of Alice upon Nathaniel Armitage, during those first years when his character was

forming, had been all for good. Could he be sure that, married to Nellie, he might not have deteriorated?

Were Alice Blatchley to marry an artist could she be sure that at forty she would still be in sympathy with

artistic ideals? Even as a child had not her desire ever been in the opposite direction to that favoured by her

nurse? Did not the reading of Conservative journals invariably incline her towards Radicalism, and the steady

stream of Radical talk round her husband's table invariably set her seeking arguments in favour of the feudal

system? Might it not have been her husband's growing Puritanism that had driven her to crave for

Bohemianism? Suppose that towards middle age, the wife of a wild artist, she suddenly "took religion," as the

Camelford was of delicate physique. As an absentminded bachelor with no one to give him his meals, no

one to see that his things were aired, could he have lived till forty? Could he be sure that home life had not

Jessica Dearwood, of a nervous, passionate nature, married to a bad husband, might at forty have posed for

one of the Furies. Not until her life had become restful had her good looks shown themselves. Hers was the

Dick Everett had no delusions concerning himself. That, had he married Jessica, he could for ten years have

remained the faithful husband of a singularly plain wife he knew to be impossible. But Jessica would have

been no patient Griselda. The extreme probability was that having married her at twenty for the sake of her

Everett was a man of practical ideas. It was he who took the matter in hand. The refreshment contractor

admitted that curious goblets of German glass occasionally crept into their stock. One of the waiters, on the

understanding that in no case should he be called upon to pay for them, admitted having broken more than

one wineglass on that particular evening: thought it not unlikely he might have attempted to hide the

fragments under a convenient palm. The whole thing evidently was a dream. So youth decided at the time,

It was some ten years later that Armitage told me the story that night in the Club smokingroom. Mrs.

Everett had just recovered from a severe attack of rheumatic fever, contracted the spring before in Paris. Mrs.

Camelford, whom previously I had not met, certainly seemed to me one of the handsomest women I have

ever seen. Mrs. ArmitageI knew her when she was Alice BlatchleyI found more charming as a woman

than she had been as a girl. What she could have seen in Armitage I never could understand. Camelford made

his mark some ten years later: poor fellow, he did not live long to enjoy his fame. Dick Everett has still

another six years to work off; but he is well behaved, and there is talk of a petition.

It is a curious story altogether, I admit. As I said at the beginning, I do not myself believe it.