I

Price Ruyler knew that many secrets had been inhumed by the earthquake
and fire of San Francisco and wondered if his wife's had been one of
them. After all, she had been born in this city of odd and whispered
pasts, and there were moments when his silent mother-in-law suggested a
past of her own.

That there was a secret of some sort he had been progressively convinced
for quite six months. Moreover, he felt equally sure that this impalpable
gray cloud had not drifted even transiently between himself and his wife
during the first year and a half of their marriage. They had been
uncommonly happy; they were happy yet ... the difference lay not in the
quality of Helene's devotion, enhanced always by an outspoken admiration
for himself and his achievements, but in subtle changes of temperament
and spirits.

She had been a gay and irresponsible young creature when he married her,
so much so that he had found it expedient to put her on an allowance and
ask her not to ran up staggering bills in the fashionable shops; which
she visited daily, as much for the pleasure of the informal encounter
with other lively and irresponsible young luminaries of San Francisco
society as for the excitement of buying what she did not want.

He had broached the subject with some trepidation, for they had never had
a quarrel; but she had shown no resentment whatever, merely an eager
desire to please him. She even went directly down to the Palace Hotel and
reproached her august parent for failing to warn her that a dollar was
not capable of infinite expansion.