Tonight had been the proudest of Bill Vanderhook’s life. He had heard himself and his possessions lauded to the skies. He had heard his wife called the handsomest and best dressed woman in Kankakee. He had heard himself praised for his popularity as Mayor, for his ability as Captain of the Guard, for his cleverness as Chairman of the Committee, his efficiency in the Y. M. C. A., his judgment in the Electric Light Company; and besides all this had heard himself referred to as “our next candidate for Congress.” He had heard his house, his wine, his wife, commended. He had heard himself toasted as a self-made gentleman. His cup was full.
And now he is sleeping the sleep of the just. Man-like, he had with one jerk divested himself of his habiliments and plunging into bed was fast asleep in the twinkling of an eye.
Not so the fair Imogene. Woman-fashion, she needs must putter about, making many unnecessary preparations for retirement. She had unbuckled, unhooked, unbuttoned, unpinned, untied and unlaced. She had taken off, shaken out, folded, hung up, taken down, picked up, pulled off and straightened out all the things that a woman gets out of and gets into between an evening function and breakfast next morning.
And finally, standing before her mirror white-robed and picturesque, her yellow locks rolled into little wads, her beauty mask in readiness, her night gloves at hand, she leans toward her own reflection smiling softly and begins rubbing some creamy stuff into her complexion.
She was smiling at and enjoying the reflection of the new diamond ear-rings, Bill’s anniversary gift. She was enjoying them as only a woman can, in her mirror, when suddenly—she started. She became aware of a Something Unusual. It was a Presence that—was not Bill. She felt very cold all at once. She forgot whether she was massaging in the circular or horizontal. Then she turned hastily and just in time to witness a very remarkable phenomenon.
Directly before her, clothed like a fashion plate, trim and debonnaire, hat in hand, and bowing and smiling, stood the man she had rejected and forgotten years ago.
Imogene Silesia Sheets-Vanderhook stood face to face with the youthful yoga of Kankakee, the now powerful Gnani of Gingalee.
The lady’s sense of the proprieties was shocked. Her blood ran hot with anger. Then she remembered for a certainty the fast bolted doors and the burglar alarm, and then her blood ran cold with fear.
The silver box fell from her hand. She screamed in terror. She sprang forward, wildly calling for Bill, when—the gentlemanly intruder, still smiling, still bowing, withdrew as he came—directly through the panels of the bolted door.
“Oh, Bill! Oh, Bill! Oh, Bill!”