A fairness of judgment was so essentially a part of Jane's equipment that she forced herself to be Jerry for the next few days. She knew him so well, she knew the way his mind worked, because she brought to bear not only her experience in living with him, but her imagination, too. She felt for his distress, even while she marvelled at it. She tucked away for future use this revelation of the diametrically opposed methods by which men and women attack problems. Had it been a more tangible thing, Jerry would have faced it more sanguinely, but in this realm of intellectual mazes and psychological reactions where she lived, poor Jerry was lost. He groped about, perplexed, indignant.

Two days after her confession about the book, he took up the matter again.

"Now that there is no more secret about your writing, can't you manage to do it at home?" he said.

"The point is that I do it better away from home. There is no place here where I can be safe from interruption. The telephone rings, Baby cries, I cannot concentrate."

"I do my work here."

"Yes, I admire your concentration very much, and envy you it," she said.

"I must say, it isn't always convenient for me to stay in all morning, because somebody has to watch the kid."

"I'm sure that's true, because I so often want to go out for things in the afternoon. As soon as we can afford it we must get a nurse for him, so that we both will be freer."

"After all, the baby is your first duty."

"If your present arrangement is a canker in your mind, Jerry, we must change it, of course. I have greatly appreciated your fair-mindedness about it."

"If I paint in the afternoon, I often have things to attend to in the morning."

"I've never known you to go out in the morning on business, Jerry."

"I have more to attend to than I used to."

"Very well, I will arrange it."

Jane spent an hour rearranging the household schedule, so that Anna could replace Jerry in the morning. Baby slept nearly all the time she was out, so it was just a matter of having some one within call, in case he waked. Good-natured Anna agreed to the new scheme and the next day, as Jane started off, she remarked to Jerry:

"There is no need of your staying in any more. Anna will look after Jerry."

"Very well," he said coldly.

So far as Jane knew, he never went out on the urgent business. After a late breakfast he read his paper in the nursery, just as usual, and little by little Anna faded out of the picture, and when Baby waked up, he and his father had a fine romp until Jane's return. They never mentioned it again and she smiled to herself at his calm assumption that he was free to come and go, so he stayed. If only she could make him apply that rule equally to both of them!

The contract on her book was signed and the advance paid her. It marked the first goal in her path. It seemed to her a big sum, ignorant as she was of the standards in her new market. Her first impulse was to hurry to Jerry with her prize and display it, but something held her back. He had not asked anything about the book. He had not asked to read it, he had not mentioned the contract or its terms. His silence hurt her deeply, so she kept her own counsel. Jerry was having great difficulty in getting his money for the last portrait he had painted, of the impecunious wife of a rich man, and the family funds were getting low, so it was with joy that Jane nursed the knowledge of her own reinforcements.

Chance played into her hands, for Jerry, always careless in regard to money, drew a check and was promptly notified by the bank that their account was overdrawn.

"Have you been drawing out any unusual amounts at the bank?" he said testily, after reading the letter.

"No."

"Damned cashier must be wrong."

"Why?"

"Says we're overdrawn."

"Let's look at the check book," she said.

Inspection showed that the cashier's statement was accurate.

"Very awkward. I can't pry a check off of Mrs. Beaufort. She's got to cheat it out of old Beaufort somehow, she tells me. That New Age Club check isn't due until the picture is installed."

"It's all right. I'll deposit the advance on my book."

"The what?"

"I got an advance from the publishers on my book."

"Well, you're not going to put that into our bank account."

"Certainly I am; why not?"

"Because I can support this family without it."

"Jerry, that is a very ungracious remark."

"I can't help it. You do what you like with the money you make, but you're not to help support me."

"Does it occur to you that I feel just the same about it? You've been perfectly fair about money ever since we agreed to both draw from one common account, but you can't deprive me of the pleasure of contributing to that common account. Why, Jerry, it's the only fun of making it!"

"You put it away for Baby, or do anything you like with it, but I can't stand your paying household bills with it."

"You are practically saying that I cannot do anything I like with it."

"Good Lord! There's no pleasing you!"

"I don't want you to please me. I only want you to admit that it is our house and our baby and our money, and I feel just as much pride in doing my part toward joint expenses as you do. It's my right to share it, when I can, as well as my greatest pleasure. Put yourself in my place and you'll see it."

He heaved a deep sigh of outraged manhood without any other reply. Jane promptly deposited her check, and his only comment was a silent one. He used what money he had sparingly and drew no personal checks while her money was being used. When Mrs. Beaufort's check finally arrived he said sardonically:

"Here's my little contribution to the family resources. Not so big as yours, but still perfectly acceptable."

"Jerry, Jerry, it isn't that you are jealous of my work and my pay that makes you so bitter against them?"

"Jealous?" he laughed, "not at all. It is no doubt a safeguard to have a rich wife."

But that controversy was ended, because when his check was deposited there was no more chance for mine and thine, so the subject was never opened up again.

These days of Jerry's irritation were difficult to bear, but Jane controlled her temper, knowing that only her cool head and judgment would carry them through this crisis.

Bobs came in to dinner with them one night in the thick of the difficulty. Jerry was sarcastic and bitter at the expense of women, so that finally Bobs turned on him.

"What's the matter with you, Jerry? I thought matrimony had tamed you!"

"On the contrary."

"Come on up to date, Jerry. It's lonesome back there where you are."

"He isn't back there at all, Bobs; he walks right along abreast of his times, in actuality, but he insists that he is still in the past," said Jane, laughing.

"Jane knows all about me," he said jeeringly.

"She ought to—she has to live with you."

"Have you heard our latest news?" he inquired.

She shook her head.

"New genius in the family."

"You mean Baby?"

"Oh, Jerry, please," said Jane.

"No; Jane."

"I've always known Jane was a genius," said Bobs.

She looked at Jane, saw her distress, and flew to the rescue.

"Has she put something over on you, Jerry?"

"Yes, she's written a book."

"Written a book?" said Bobs, in italics.

"I intended not to tell any one until it was published, but since Jerry has seen fit to tell...." Jane began, flushed and angry.

"Jane! how wonderful! What is it about?"

Jane shrugged her shoulders.

"Jerry, what's it about?" Bobs demanded.

"I don't know—I haven't read it."

"Haven't read it? Why not?"

"She hasn't asked me to."

"Why, Jerry! I thought you didn't want me to," exclaimed Jane.

"Let me tell you one thing, Jane Judd, I'll not leave this house until I have a copy in my hands. I'd rather read a book by you! Why, Jane, you old sphinx, how could you do it? Tell me the whole thing."

"She won't tell you a word. I had to drag it out of her," Jerry remarked.

"Very well, you tell me," Bobs ordered.

Jerry smiled.

"It's quite a drama. The first act set is little town. Heroine in pigtails, yearning with ambition to be George Sand or George Eliot or some of the great female scribblers. Encouraged by doting mother, she writes essays on Spring. Act two, plays in the great, cruel city. Heroine, orphaned and penniless, comes to fight for fame. Like the poor match-girl, she knows hunger and cold, while she peddles her works—in vain. Am I accurate, Jane?"

"Quite," she said calmly.

"She is forced to take a mere job to buy food. Enter a brilliant but impoverished artist, with the job in his right hand. Heroine toils by day that she may create by night. Midnight oil, cold tenement room, you know. Abraham Lincoln stuff."

"Jane, while you were working for all of us, did you write, too?"

Jane nodded.

"Don't interrupt, Bobs. Enter hero—a great critic—a literary light. Reads heroine's work—hails her genius of the age—rushes her to publishers, who press gold upon her and accept her immortal opus!"

He paused to inspect Jane, who smiled at him.

"Go on with act three. That's only two acts," cried Bobs.

"Act three isn't written yet. It develops story of insignificant husband, formerly brilliant but impoverished artist, and the chie-ild."

"Well, well, well!" said Bobs. "I never was so excited. I always knew you'd create something, Jane, and now...."

"May I call attention to her other creation—Mr. Jerry Paxton Jr.?" said Jerry.

"He's important, but anybody can have a baby and so few people can write books!" said Bobs.

"You women! I reverse it! Anybody can write a book, but so few women can have a son like Jerry. That's the set of volumes I wish her to complete."

"No, no more human volumes, Jerry, until we have ample means. Printing and binding and bookshelves are so costly for human volumes. Besides, one must be so careful what one writes in them."

"I suppose I have something to say about that," he said angrily.

"Certainly. I supposed I was expressing your conviction, too, Jerry, that only the best that love can give, only the largest opportunity, could excuse bringing children into the world."

Bobs looked from one to the other of them, trying to analyze Jerry's anger.

"Jane's right. Most parents would have a hard time defending themselves, if their children came to them with the question, 'Why did you do this to me?'"

"You talk an awful lot of nonsense, you two," said Jerry, flinging out of the room.

"What's the matter with him?" Bobs asked.

"He's bitterly opposed to my writing."

"He's jealous; I know him."

"He doesn't think it's that. I only just realized to-night that he was hurt because I hadn't offered him the book. I was hurt because he didn't ask for it," she added.

"Men are a trial!" Bobs said, and dismissed them for the more congenial topic of the book. They talked it over for hours, and when Bobs left she had a typed copy in her arm. She called a good-night to Jerry, who came downstairs and tried to be agreeable. He insisted on walking home with her. While he was gone, Jane pondered deeply, and came to a decision. When he returned she was still in the studio. She had a pile of manuscripts in her hands, and she came toward him.

"Jerry, would you—will you read it?" she asked him gently.

"Thanks. I was going to ask you if you had a copy," he replied with effort.

She smiled a good-night and slipped off upstairs to bed. At three o'clock she woke to see the light still shining in the studio. She went to the balcony and looked down. Jerry sat, under the light, reading absorbedly, with sheets of script scattered about him like a troubled sea.