The Green Bungalow by Fred M. White

Andrew Macglendy had dined comfortably and well in his luxuriously appointed house 201, Brunswick Square, and sat at the dinner table smoking a choice cigar and drinking his coffee. Opposite him was his wife, a handsome woman, though somewhat faded, with grey hair, and a dead white face, and possessing about as much vitality as an automatic figure. There was something almost grotesque in the way she moved, when Macglendy spoke to her, and the look of almost abject horror on her face when he addressed her. For the rest, she was tall and slim, most exquisitely dressed, having the air and manner of one who, at some time or another, has known what it is to move in good society. But all that was warm and human had been ground out of that unfortunate woman years ago by one who, in every sense of the word, was her lord and master.

Those who knew declared that Mrs. Macglendy was well-born, and that she was closely connected with more than one aristocratic family. She was supposed to have come to her husband years ago with a comfortable fortune of her own, but that had long been squandered by an extravagant husband, who now, to put it bluntly, more or less lived upon his wits.