Two weeks later Sheila and Max Fargus left church as man and wife and, entering a cab, set out for their new home near Stuyvesant Square. The comedy which Bofinger had devised had thus come to a successful end. The lawyer was not mistaken. Fargus, in despair at the thought of Sheila's leaving, had offered himself that afternoon. She did not accept at once, she asked time for reflection; but promised, in response to his frantic appeals, to remain in New York. Miss Morissey, her aunt, departed for Chicago on the next afternoon. Fargus did not see her.

Sheila, after several days, allowed herself to be persuaded. But in consenting to be his wife she promised nothing more. She frankly avowed herself happy to have the opportunity of a home, admitted a certain friendly esteem, which she did not pretend was irrevocable, but made him understand that to win her love lay in his hands alone. On these terms she asked him, with many misgivings, if it was right for a woman to marry.

Fargus argued the question furiously and without rest, and succeeded, to his delight, in disposing of one objection after the other, without for a moment suspecting that it was he and not Sheila the arguments were designed to convince.

The arrival of the wedding was to him a day of bewildering and complex emotions. So well did the woman keep him in suspense of her final acceptance, that it was only on the morning of the wedding-day itself that he awoke to the fact that the day would dispose of his own existence.

His first act was characteristic. He rushed in a tempest to the coffee stall, where he announced his departure and his marriage to Nell, to whom for the final time he brought the agony of a destiny despised. Refreshed by this coup de grace on the woman he had never forgiven, he hurried chastened and cheerful to Sheila.

At first he had opposed a religious ceremony. He professed himself an atheist. When one ceases to believe in man, one does not believe in God. Sheila, who was really devout, would hear of nothing else. Fargus ceded, but his appearance in church had put him into a frightful humor.

Now in the cab, alone at last with the woman he had so long desired, he discovered all at once that the law, which gave him everything, gave him nothing at all. In his squat hand were the four fingers which she had ceded to him, without resistance and without feeling. He clung to them awkwardly, gingerly, knowing not what to do.

Sheila did not even feel his presence. Withdrawn as far as possible, without appearing to shun him, she nerved herself for the battle which, with sure instinct, she felt approaching. Of the two, she had all the self-possession, plus an excited mentality which stimulated all her forces at the approach of the crisis.

She was in this mood when the cab stopped at the flight of red brick dwellings, before the stoop above which the tin sailor was whirling his paddles. She had a slight surprise. It was not elegance; but she had dreaded worse.

"It's not so discouraging," she thought, as she jumped out full of anticipation. "It is not bad—to begin with."

Astonished to find the shades down, she rang impatiently, then turning to Fargus, who was disputing furiously with the driver, she cried:

"Is this right? Have I made a mistake?"

"In a moment, I have the key," he cried, dismissing the driver and hurrying up.

"Ah!" she thought, drawing breath like a gladiator entering the arena. "I'm to have no servant, then!"

"There, my dear," cried the voice of her husband, proudly, "there you are!"

Forgetting twenty pretty speeches, he threw open the door and stood aside with bashful pride to let her pass.

The beam of light entered the vacant dusk like an intruder. Sheila seized all in one swift glance and her lips set dangerously. She remained without motion, while Fargus, mumbling nervously, stole to the parlor window and flung open the shutters. The hall was bare, the parlor had but a table and a cheap lamp in its emptiness. The walls were destitute of ornament, clothed with an invariable dust-green paper.

She went quickly to the dining-room. The furniture was of the scantiest. She counted the chairs, there were just two. The sideboard and the table were of oak, thinly veneered and not fresh. The two gazed silently, Sheila with swelling throat and clouded eyes, Fargus, to whom each purchase had been a plunge into the abyss of ruin, trembling again with the memory of the pangs each had cost him.

"Well," he asked at last, "it's pretty, don't you think?"

"Oh, the house can be made very pretty," she said pensively and, turning to him with a smile, she added gratefully, "and you were real nice to leave me the furnishing of it."

"The—the furnishing!" he stammered, opening his eyes.

"Wait and see what I can do," she cried with a laugh. "Now I'm going up to see the rest."

She left him stupefied and tripped up the stairs. In their bedroom, which alone was furnished, there was nothing but a bed, a chest of drawers, and two chairs. She felt a profound discouragement, a sudden desire to weep, but it was only the weakness that precedes great victories.

"Now or never!" she thought, as she heard the soft step of her husband on the stairs. She threw herself into an attitude of inspection, gathering her skirts from the dusty floor, set her head critically on one side, and extended her hand as though to calculate the height of the walls.

"What are you doing?" Fargus said, stopping short.

"I was trying to decide," she answered meditatively, "whether to paper all the room in rose or to use a border."

Fargus leaned against the door for support. Then forcing a horrible laugh, he cried with desperate good humor:

"Say, now, you're a good one, and that's a good joke!"

"As for the guest room—green and white," she continued, passing to the back; "green and white is fresh and clean."

The absurdity of a guest room convinced Fargus. He laughed with a light heart and entered the spirit of the jest.

"Green and white is good," he assented, wagging his head.

"The question is whether to have a double bed or two single ones," she persisted.

"Oh, two!" he said gravely, sticking his tongue in his cheek.

"A double bed is cheaper," she said reflectively.

"Bah!"

"I know just the furniture," she said, embracing the room with a sweep of her hand. "Such a bargain! We ought to pick it up at once,—seven pieces, bird's-eye maple too, just the elegant thing."

"Let's go now," he said with exaggerated levity.

"Shall we—O Max!" she answered, clapping her hands. Then nodding seriously, she said in approbation: "You have begun well. You don't know what it means to a woman to have the making of her home. Just think what fun it'll be, picking out carpets and rugs and pictures. But we must decide on the papering right off—because I don't intend to be out of my home any longer than I can help it!"

He eyed her suspiciously. There was that in her enthusiasm which made him doubt her levity. Nevertheless he could not yet bring himself to comprehend such a monstrosity. He answered facetiously:

"How about the stable and horses, my dear?"

Seeing that she must bring matters to an issue she returned to their room, nodded and said pensively:

"This we ought to decide more carefully. I'm for ebony, though. It's nobby. Now," she added, wheeling about, "let's go to the hotel."

"What hotel?" he said dumfounded.

"Why, the hotel we're going to stay at, until the house is ready," she said impatiently.

Then all at once he comprehended that he was caught. He felt for a chair and stumbled into it.

"Then what you said about furnishing was true?" he said in a dying voice. "You meant it!"

"Why, what is the matter with you?" she asked, stopping and looking at him in pretended amazement.

Suddenly he bounded up and said brutally, pointing to the room:

"This is where we stay!"

"Here?" she cried scornfully. "This isn't fit for a servant!"

She had dreamed of luxury so long that the manner came to her naturally. For a moment Fargus was overawed by her sudden stature, then the thought came to him that after all she belonged to him and that he had a right to do as he wished with her.

"Well, that's where you stay!" he cried with that rage which is as closely allied to love as madness to genius. She saw him advance upon her to crush her in his arms. Without giving an inch, she put her hands behind her and looked him frigidly in the eyes. His hands touched her before they fell. She was at once anger and ice; to have continued would have been to embrace a monument. So overcome was he that he remained awkwardly before her, not knowing how to extricate himself.

"Go and sit down," she said coldly, "and let's have an understanding at once!"

He hesitated, with his eyes on the floor, brooding whether to carry it through by violence. She saw and was frightened.

"And let me say at once, Mr. Fargus," she continued hurriedly. "Never attempt again what you tried then! For if you do—I shall know how to protect myself."

The mystery of her threat appalled him. The man in love believes all absurdities. He retreated.

"What furnishing does it need?" he asked sullenly.

"Everything, carpets, curtains, linen, furniture," she said aggressively, now that her moment of danger had passed. "Even to the servant's room nothing is done!"

"Servant!" he cried in terror. "Do you want to ruin me!"

"What!" she exclaimed in turn. "Do you mean I'm to have no servant!"

"What for?"

"Then it's true," she cried vehemently. "You were bringing me to this garret to be your servant! This is the kindness you promised me—this is your generosity!"

"Sheila!" he cried in fear, as she gathered her cape about her.

"This, then, is what your love means!" she continued angrily. "So you expect me to come to this, do you? A kennel! A dining-room without a chair for a friend!"

"I have no friends!"

"So you thought, did you," she said scornfully, "that I would cook for you, wash for you, clean for you, make your bed for you? You call that getting a wife! You are wrong, you don't want a wife—you want a slave! Go and get one!"

"Sheila, one moment,—Sheila!" he cried, seeing her about to depart.

She paused, and then, with a toss of her head, returned and sat down. Presently she said sadly, her eyes filling with tears:

"And this is all you care for me. If you were poor and I loved you, I'd share anything with you. But you are rich—you told me so twenty times. So, if you bring me to this, it can only mean, Max, that you despise me."

"No, no!" he cried, won by the sweetness of the look she gave him. He flung himself at her knees, striving to gain her hand, but Sheila, withdrawing it with firmness, said gently:

"What else am I to think? I haven't concealed from you that I don't love you. I liked you for your kindness, I respected you—yes, I trusted you, when you swore you would know how to earn my love. I consented to marry you telling you all this, for I longed for a home. Is this, then," she continued with a catch in her voice, "is this the way you're going to make me love you?"

He had caught her hand, he felt himself going, slipping from the old moorings, and with a last resistance he cried desperately:

"Sheila, what is it you want?"

"To be treated as your wife!" she said quickly, avoiding the pitfall of the specific. "To be treated as though you were proud of me. Either that or"—she paused a moment and ran her fingers through his hair; "or if money means more to you than to love and be loved, poor man, then let us own our mistake and part—now."

"No, Sheila, no! Don't leave me!" he cried, and sinking his head in her lap, vanquished, he caught her knees while the very rout of his soul made her indispensable to his infatuation.

"Then I am—to stay?"

A sob was her answer.

"Poor fellow," she said compassionately. "What do you know of life? I will teach you how to live."

These terrible words, which filled the flesh of the miser with mortification, aroused in the lover the frenzy of the gambler. He felt that he was throwing his all to the winds and the thought intoxicated him.

"Sheila," he cried, lifting his face, "do what you want! I love you—only you!"

She bent her head hurriedly. There were in her eyes two things she did not dare let him see, the pride of her triumph and that bewildered pity which comes only to the utter victors.