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8 American Sunday Monthly Magazine Section The CONFESSIONS of a HAD never loved any woman until I met Kitty Houghton. She was visiting the wife of the commandant of the post at which J, an artillery officer, was stationed. She was pretty, with a dainty, child-like beauty that appealed to a huge, clumsy fellow like myself. She was the only daughter of a widower who had petted and spoiled her. Her little exacting ways, lier taking all adoration of her petite and piquante self as a matter of course, fascinated me. She seemed as simple as a child, as dependent as a baby, and as adorable as a lovely woman. 1 asked her to marry me and she accepted me. When I spoke of running on to New York to ask her father’s consent, she opened her great eyes in unaffected surprise. “Why how funny!” she said. “Of course papa will let me marry you. I don’t think”—reflectingly —“that I ever really wanted anything that he did not let me have. And,” with a quick blush and a nestling movement in the arm I had thrown around her, “I want you, Rob!” Her father proved that his love was equal to sacrifice, for, after ascertaining that I was a decent sort of a fellow, he agreed that “since Kitty wanted an army man, she must have one.” But the honest old man had tears in his eyes when he bade us good bye after the wedding reception. As my bride was fond of society and gay life, I was glad that 1 was stationed at one of the most delight ful of army posts, which, because of the location, is a popular resort. The society within the dear old Fort was excellent, and the huge hotel outside was always well-filled with fashionable people. I was proud of my dainty little wife. No woman in the great hotel parlors was prettier, and to my way of thinking none was half as sweet as my care-free companion. She touched me by her evident desire for my companionship, and would pout as if she were a little child if 1 ever allowed official duties to interfere with any of her plans for “a good time.” “I won’t go without you!” she would exclaim when an invitation came which I could not accept. One can be young but once, I thought, and, above all else, Kitty must be happy. She reminded me of this one morning when, as I was an officer of the day, I could not leave the post to go on a projected drive, with a gay party of young married people. “Papa always did as I asked him,” she said, “and you promised to make me as happy as he did.” I smiled and shook my head as I said, “I only promised to try to do so, Kit, and I do try. You know I do, don’t you, dear?” “If you will go on this drive to-day I will believe that you try,” she insisted. When I endeavored to make her understand that I would be breaking an army rule if I went, her lip quivered. “Then I suppose I can spend this lovely day at home in this pokey old house!” she muttered. I suggested that she might go without me, but she burst into tears. “You know I can’t go!” she sobbed. “How would I look, the one woman without her husband, and when we have been married only a couple of months? I think you are very selfish!” She ran off to her own room and shut herself in. Nor did she appear below-stairs until an officer’s wife, coming by to see if she were ready, boldly demanded admittance to her room. When Kitty had declared repeatedly that she had a headache and that she “really ought not to go,” she yielded to the older woman’s persuasions, and, half-an-hour later, drove off with the jolly party, laughing merrily, waving her hand to me and calling out: “Good-bye, Rob! I’m sorry you can’t go. Don’t worry about my head, for I am sure the air will do it good.” When she returned I said nothing of her outburst of anger, nor of her pretense of a headache for the sake of appearances. I had already learned that it did no good to talk over such occurrences. The child had always let her temper have its way, and had acquired the habit of smoothing things over to suit her whims. In another person such fabrica tions would have seemed to me to be falsehoods. In my own soul, I excused them in her case as I would the fibs of a little child. She took much pride in our newly-furnished home, but, as months passed, the little duties which she had enjoyed bored her. At first she had insisted on dusting the bric-a-brac herself, except on the one day in the week on which the drawing room was swept. Now I noticed that this one day of general cleaning, when Dinah and her feather duster did their work, was the only one on which any cleaning was done. I spoke of this to Kitty, carefully and tentatively, suggesting that it would be well if she could find time to look after the rooms a little each day, as I thought Dinah was a bit careless. As usual when there was any suspicion of fault-finding, her eyes overflowed. “Really,' Rob, you are too exacting! I do the best I can to keep the house clean, and you never praise me, but you watch for every speck of dirt and fuss about it!” I tried to speak calmly. “ Kitty, I have never mentioned the subject before. You, yourself, begged me to allow you to care for the parlors, except the heavy sweeping, but I never asked you to do it, nor do I want you to. But you should teach your maid to look after these things properly.” “0 dear!” she exclaimed. “How ready a man is to say what a woman should do! You might be a brevet colonel by this time if you could run your own profession as well as you think you can run my housekeeping!” But in spite of occasional domestic clouds, there were many happy periods, days of calm and sun shine, days when our little house would be brightened up for a pleasant luncheon or a jolly Welsh rabbit party. At such times my wife was in her element, working beforehand to clean the tarnished silver, polishing glasses, and emptying vases of withered blossoms and filling them with fresh flowers. She was a pearl of a hostess, tactful, bright and merry. When she intended to have company she would hand Dinah an extra dollar or two to put her in a good humor so that she would bake several kinds of cake and make a delectable salad or punch. The prin ciple was a poor one, but it was Kitty’s way to do that kind of thing. It ill behooved me to say a word, for she had enough money of her own to gratify her whims. All my pay was required to run the house, for wise manage- jment would have been needed to lay aside any money and Kitty had never learned to manage. I soon discovered that she bought with her own money— the income from the sum her father had given her as a wedding-gift—many of the exquisite toilettes that I, in my folly, had supposed she got from the money I handed her from time to time. It actually hurt me to feel that my wife was paying for her own clothing. I told her so, one day, and she laughed and patted my cheek. “Don’t be so silly, Rob! What should I do with my cash but spend it on clothes? I just send a check on to auntie, in New York, and she gets me what I want. It’s mine to do as I please with.” I appreciated that if any money was to be laid aside against the proverbial rainy day, it must be saved by me. I therefore suggested that I give my wife a weekly allowance for housekeeping, but, after a week’s trial of this scheme, she decided that it was “too much bother,” and I made no demur. In spite of her lack of system, Kitty was one of the most attractive of women. At this distance I can still say that, for it is true. Animated, full of fun, making the best of any situation that did not involve actual disappointment to her, affectionate and engaging, is it any wonder that a sober chap like myself found her fascinating, and that she found some of my ways ponderous and old fashioned? Take it by and large, we had much happiness during the first and second years of our married life. We may not have been congenial, but we were companionable, and my love made me condone the heedless ways that would have angered some men. As time went on we entertained more, and on a larger scale. I humored my wife in her social aspira tions, for I knew they made for her happiness. When we had been married two years something happened that convinced me that Kitty and I had a code of right and wrong as impossible to amalga mate as are oil and water. I had been away on one of my flying visits to my semi-invalid mother. She and my widowed sister lived in a city some [six hours distant, and when I could get off I would run out there on one day and return the next. After my marriage I did this seldom, for Kitty had a dread of being left alone. Once in a great while she would accompany me, but she disliked the journey. Often my thoughts turned with longing to my own flesh and blood, and There are some men with whom fatherhood is a passion this year, just before Christmas, I made a hurried trip to their home. I returned to the Fort with a tugging at my heart-strings, for my mother did not look as well as heretofore, and seemed weaker than when I had last seen her. My sister promised to notify me should our mother show any decided signs of illness, so I put my fears aside and entered with what zest I could summon into the plans for a dinner party which Kitty was arranging for Christmas Eve. This dinner was to be the biggest and most elab orate “affair” that the little society lover had ever attempted. Her excitement in it was as naive as a child’s. There were to be a dozen guests; waiters