He went to his room, rebelliously preparing to dress for the dinner and theater to which he had been commanded.
"By George, if I came back late, wouldn't I catch it?" he said with some irritation, slipping into his evening clothes and looking critically at his rather subdued reflection in the glass. "Jim tells me I'm getting in a rut, middle-aged, showing the wear. Perhaps." He rubbed his hand over the wrinkled cheek and frowned. "I have gone off a bit—sedentary life—six years. It does settle you. Hello! quarter of seven. Very strange!"
He slipped into a lilac dressing-gown which had been thrust upon him on his last birthday and wandered uneasily back into the dining-room.
"Why doesn't she telephone?" he thought; "it's her own party, one of those infernal problem plays I abhor. I didn't want to go."
The door opened and the maid entered. On the tray was a letter.
"For me?" he said, surprised. "By messenger?"
"Yes, sir."
He signed the slip, glancing at the envelope. It was in his wife's handwriting.
"Margaret!" he said suddenly.
"Yes, sir."