Jerry sat down on the couch, by the fire, and Jane stood looking down at him. She was trembling at the excitement of the moment.

"We haven't talked much of our inner selves, Jerry, and it's a little hard to begin—especially as this goes away back to the beginning of the time I came to the studio. Did you ever wonder why I took the work you offered?"

He nodded. She interested him now. She stood in that still way of hers, with the folds of her dull, blue gown hanging straight and close. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes shining; she was like a crystal ball which centred all the light and feeling in the room.

"I had to make a living so that I could go on with my real work, so I took the first thing that offered."

"What was your real work, Jane?"

"Writing. I always had a consuming desire to write—to express myself. I've always been rather silent—spoken words are so dangerous—but written words, they're like winged birds that I nurse in my heart. When I free them, they fly so far, so sure."

She stopped suddenly, aware that she had never spoken freely to him. His attention was concentrated on her.

"My mother thought I had a gift when I was a girl; no one else knew of my ambition. But when my father and mother were dead, I came to New York, with almost no money and some funny, childish little stories, to make a great name for myself."

She laughed at that, but it hurt Jerry. He did not smile at all.

"Almost the first editor who saw me told me I had no talent. He said I must take a position that would support me; then I might write until I learned how."

"So you took my job?"

"Yes; it was all I was fitted to do. It didn't matter what I did, anyway. My real life was at night, when I wrote."

"What did you write, Jane?"

"Everything. Stories, essays, poems, tons of things."

"Where did you sell them?"

"I didn't sell them. Nobody ever saw them—not until Martin came."

"How did he know about them?"

"I told him, that first night I met him, at your pageant. He asked me what I did and for some reason I told him. He asked me to see some of my things and he liked them, rather, only he saw that I needed to live—that I could not really write if I sat outside of life and speculated about it. He literally opened up a new world to me. He took me about, to the theatre, to hear music. He got me interested in the big problems of now; he made me hungry for all the experiences I had been starved for."

Jerry leaned out toward her.

"That's why you married me, Jane?"

She turned and looked at him, as if he were calling her out of a trance.

"Yes, that was why. I wanted a child," she said simply.

Jerry threw himself back on the couch and laughed at that—laughed stridently.

"Do you mind, Jerry?" she asked in surprise.

"Mind? Oh, no! It's amusing to hear that you've been gobbled up, as a possible experience, a stimulus, as it were, to a lady's literary expression. I really owe you to Christiansen, don't I?"

"Does it seem a meaner motive than yours, in marrying me, Jerry?"

"Go on with the story," he said, ignoring her question.

"There isn't any more. Martin advised me, criticised my work, helped in every way. This winter I have finished a book."

"Finished a book? Why, when did you do it?"

"Mornings—on my mysterious errands that vexed you so. I kept my old room at Mrs. Biggs's, and went there to work."

"Oh!" said Jerry, with colour slowly rising.

"Yes; simpler than you thought. The day you met Martin and me, he was taking me to a publishers' office. This is their letter to me."

She gave it to him and he read it through carefully. When he looked up she saw that he was excited.

"Do I congratulate you? Is that what a man does who suddenly finds himself possessed of a wife with a well-developed career?"

"I'm sorry you hate it so, Jerry."

"Hate it? Not at all. But it is a bit upsetting to know that you've been fooled about some one for years."

"I offered to tell you, the day we were married, but you refused to listen; you said you would take my ambitions and ideas on faith, if I would yours."

"Well, but I didn't know you had a secret like this up your sleeve."

"I risked your secrets, too, Jerry."

"There's nothing for me to do but to get used to it. I suppose you can't be induced to give it up now."

"Could you be induced to give up painting?"

"I'm not a married woman with a child."

"But you are a human being, with something to express, aren't you?"

"I suppose so."

"So am I. Being a woman, the fact that I am married, that I have a child, gives me more to say. Everything that enriches my life makes it more impossible for me to be dumb. Isn't that true with you, too, Jerry?"

"It's different with me; creation happens to be my job—my livelihood."

"So it must be mine, some day, although that isn't the ideal way. Earning a living by some other means, or having it provided and then creating what your spirit urges you to do, that's the ideal."

"But you had that before you married me, according to your story."

"Yes. But I had nothing vital to say."

"But if I provide the vitality and the livelihood," bitterly.

"Jerry, that is the only unfair and unkind thing I ever heard you say."

"I'm sorry, Jane, but all this is rather a blow, you know. I don't believe in women having careers after they are married. I always said I would never marry a woman artist."

"Granted that you have been deceived in me, Jerry. Whether that is your fault or mine is of no importance. Have I made you a reasonably satisfactory wife, considering the kind of marriage we made?"

"I suppose so."

"No, that's not fair. Do I make your home comfortable?"

"Of course."

"Do I protect your working hours?"

He nodded.

"Do I nag or ask questions, or complain about things?"

He shook his head.

"Am I extravagant?"

"Good Lord! Jane, you're all right, but this is only the beginning. This is your first picture on the line," he said, holding up the letter.

"I know that there are many ways in which I fail as a wife—ways in which we are not harmonious—but that shield has two sides, Jerry, and my belief is that, since we did what we did, we can't expect perfection in our life together. We have to face certain grave lacks, and make the best of what we have."

"I suppose that's fair."

"We've got a difficult situation on our hands. I don't know whether it would be easier or harder if we loved each other. But all I ask of you is to go step by step with me in the matter, and try to keep an open mind. Don't talk about my career; I don't want a career. I just want to say what I think and feel, as my contribution. I want to do it, so that it does not take an iota of my time or interest from you or Baby; is that unreasonable?"

"It sounds all right."

"But, Jerry, you mustn't begrudge it to me, like that! Can't you just say to yourself: 'Now this isn't working out any theory; it hasn't anything to do with feminism; it's just a knot for us two to untie?' We've got to keep our tempers sweet and our minds aired to do it, Jerry, but won't you try it out with me?"

"It sounds easy and reasonable to you, Jane, but what you're asking me to do is to shed all my inherited ideas and my own convictions on this subject of woman's function and place."

"My dear, inherited ideas ought to go; they're not worth giving storage room, and convictions that are change-proof are dangerous possessions!"

"That's your point of view!"

"It is yours on most subjects. If you prove to me that it is not your point of view on this subject, I shall certainly respect it, and also try to change it."

"You don't leave me any alternative," he said, veering from the point. "You spring this thing on me, and say: 'Now—make the best of it!'"

"I'm sorry you feel that way about it. There is, of course, a perfectly obvious alternative—that we should separate."

"You mean you would go that far, rather than let this writing business go for a few years until Jerry is five or six?"

"I can't get into your mind when you hold it shut, Jerry. I've put every effort and hope of my life into laborious toil for seven years to prepare myself for this work. You speak of 'this writing business' as if it were some whim of the moment. It is serious, Jerry. I believe in myself. I have something to say that no other human being in the world will say, and I've learned how to say it. Other women, similarly equipped physically, might have produced Jerry, but no other woman could have produced that book."

"Then you think the book is more important than Jerry?"

She kept her control with difficulty; he was so wantonly hurting her.

"I think I am here to produce both. One is the child of my body and one is the child of my spirit. They are equally important to me; they are inevitable."

"I can't understand you, Jane. I thought your love for Jerry was the one passion of your life, but that doesn't sound like it."

"We are what we are, Jerry; you can't push back development. I can't unmake you as artist any more than you can unmake me. The only difference is that I don't want to."

"You knew what I was when you married me."

"But how am I different from the person you married, Jerry? I'm what I was yesterday; nothing has changed in our lives; we will work and play and eat and sleep to-morrow as we did yesterday; why do you feel so upset about me?"

"But can't you see that you're a stranger to me? You aren't the kind of woman I thought you were!"

"But do you think I'm a less desirable companion because I've proved that I have a gift that you did not suspect? I am adding something as a contribution to our common life, not taking anything away."

"That's still to be proved."

"Why, no, Jerry, it has been proved! I've been proving it ever since we married. The only difference is that yesterday you didn't know it—to-day, you do."

"It's my knowing it that makes the difference; you said yourself that it might make a difference in our life together!"

"Yes, but I meant a change for the better. I thought you might be a little proud of me—that I'd won a long, hard fight—that you might hold out your hand to me and say: 'Good for you, Partner; now we'll march along together with a new, common interest!'"

"I'm sorry to be such a disappointment, Jane. I'm not playing up at all, but this thing has knocked me over. I've got to think it out." He fumbled for his words.

"Of course, that's what we must both do."

"I do think it's great that your book is accepted," he added lamely.

"Thank you, Jerry," she said, and turned to go upstairs, but not before he had seen the tears in her eyes—the first tears he had ever seen Jane shed.