HE had left the office early and had caught a car that was passing the corner as he came out. As soon as he entered he knew that Rosalind was in the car, three seats ahead. He gave a little start, a quick flash—he did not want to catch Rosalind off guard—Then he smiled; it was not Rosalind of the alcove—it was the plain, every-day Rosalind, her lap heaped with bundles, and bundles on the seat beside her. Rosalind’s flannels, he thought, probably.

He moved down the aisle and stood beside the seat, lifting his hat and looking down at her.

“Why, Eldridge!” She looked up with the little peering smile and made a place for him among the bundles, trying to gather them up into her lap.

But he swept them away. “I’ll take these,” he said.

The little distressed look came between her eyes. Eldridge couldn’t bear bundles. “I thought I wouldn’t wait to have them sent,” she apologized. “It’s so cold—and they need them—right off.”

“Yes—” He looked at her jacket; it was thin, with the shabby lining showing at the edge. “Did you get yourself a warm wrap?” he asked.

She was looking out of the window, and the line of her cheek flushed swiftly. “No—I—”

“I want you to do it—at once.”

She glanced at him—a little questioning look in her face. “I—have—seen something I like—” she said.

“Get it to-morrow. I will order it for you when I go in.”

Her hands made a gesture above the bundles. “Please don’t, Eldridge. I would rather—do it—myself.”

“Very well. But remember to get it.”

“Yes—I will get it.” She sighed softly.

Deceitful Rosalind! If he had not seen for himself the box in the attic with its overflowing soft colors and the grey fur, he would not have believed the deceit of her face....

Not that he was blaming anybody. He was not blaming Rosalind. The picture of Mr. Eldridge Walcott remained with him.... He was not likely to forget how Mr. Eldridge Walcott had looked to him—in the flash of light.

Perhaps he looked like that to Rosalind—to both Rosalinds! He turned a little in the seat and glanced down at her—Yes, they were both there—the plain little figure in its shabby jacket and the reticent, beautiful woman of the alcove.

The fingers in cheap gloves were fussing at a parcel. “I got fleece-lined shirts for Tommie—his skin is so sensitive—I thought I would try fleece-lined ones for him.”

Damn fleece-lined ones! Would she never talk to him except of undershirts—and coal-hods? He took the paper from his pocket and glanced casually at it.

“Has coal gone up?” she asked. “They said it would go up—if it stayed cold.” The anxious, lines were in her face.

He put down the paper and leaned toward her. He felt nearer to her, in a street car, than in his own home. “Don’t you worry about coal, Rosalind! We shall not freeze—nor starve.”

She stared a little. “Of course, we shall not freeze, Eldridge!”

“I mean there is plenty—to be comfortable with. You are not to worry and pinch.”

A quick look flooded out at him—a look of the Rosalind within. “You mean we can afford not to worry?”

He saw the prig Eldridge Walcott, walking in serene knowledge of a comfortable income while the little lines had gathered in her face. He longed to kick the respectable Mr. Eldridge Walcott from behind.

“There is quite enough money,” he said. “I am doing better than I have—and I shall do better yet.”

She looked down at the bundles. “I might have got a better quality,” she said.

“Take them all back,” said Eldridge. “I’ll take them—”

But she shook her head. “No, they need them to-morrow—and these will do—” She smiled at them. “It’s really more the feeling that you can get better ones, isn’t it? You don’t mind wearing old things—if you know you could have better ones—if you wanted to—” She broke off vaguely.

He saw the box in the attic—all the filmy softness—and he saw the ill-fitting, cheap gloves resting in her lap—That was what had saved her—the real Rosalind. Some one had seen that her soul should be in its own clothes, now and then, and happy and free. You could not quite be jealous of a man who had done that for you—who had clothed Rosalind’s soul, could you?

He could not think of the man who had clothed Rosalind’s soul—who had kept alive something that was precious. He could not hate the man. But there was no place in his thoughts for him.

Suppose, after all, Rosalind belonged to the man who saw her soul and clothed it? Suppose Rosalind belonged to him!... Very well—he should not have her!

He helped her from the car with her bundles, and as he fitted the key in the door the wind struck them fiercely; they were almost blown in with the force of it as the door opened. They stood in the hall, laughing, safe—the wind shut out——There was a quick color in her face, and it lifted to him, laughing freshly, like a girl’s.

They were together. She had not looked at him like that for years.

He pondered on the look as she went about getting supper. He watched her come and go and wondered awkwardly whether he might not offer to go out and help. He went at last into the kitchen; she was putting coal on the fire and he took the hod from her, throwing on the coal.

She looked at him, puzzled. “Are you in a hurry for supper, Eldridge?”

“Oh—No.” He went back to the living-room, and talked a little with the children, amusing them quietly. He had a home sense, a feeling that the room was a kind of presence; the wind howling outside could not touch them..

And when Rosalind came in and they sat at the table and he looked across to her shyly, almost like a boy, he wished he knew what would please her best. He could not keep his eyes off her hand as it grasped the handle of the teapot and poured his tea. It seemed such a mysterious hand with the roughened finger pricks—and the little gentle hand inside that did no work. He wanted to take the hand, to touch it.... Of course, a man would not take his wife’s hand—like that. He could see the startled look in Rosalind’s eyes if he should reach out.... There was a long road to travel—and he did not know the way.

But he could begin softly with clothes—and touch her hand later perhaps. She should have beautiful things———He had told her to buy the fur-lined coat.

He pictured her in it—the coat that his money should buy—he saw her wrapped in it, and he sat still thinking of her and of the coat his money should buy. Then the door opened and he looked up.

She was standing in the door—and about her was a long grey coat lined with fur—the coat of the alcove. Her eyes looked at him over the soft fur of the collar.

He sprang to his feet—then he checked the word on his lip.

He must not let her speak. It was the coat of the alcove. She would wear it silently. But she would not tell him. She must not be frightened into saying something that was not true. He came over to her and touched the edge of the fur, as if questioning it, and she smiled and opened it out. “Is it warm enough?” she asked proudly.

She stood with the garment extended like wings, and he held his breath.

Then she drew it together softly.

“I have had it some time,” she said. “I was keeping it to surprise you!”

His breath came quick. How much would she tell him? He looked at it critically. “Was it a bargain?” he asked..

“No—Not a bargain.” And she stroked the edge of the fur. “I saw it and liked it—and I got it.”

“That’s right. That’s the way to buy all your clothes.” He looked at it a minute lightly and turned away.

She could not have guessed from his gesture that he was disappointed, but her eyes followed him. “I hope you won’t think I paid too much—for it?”

“What did you pay?” he asked. His back was toward her.

“I paid—two hundred dollars,” she said. The words came lightly, and there was a little pause.

“No, I don’t think that was too much.” He had turned and was looking at her—straight. “I would have paid more than two hundred—to give it to you,” he said slowly.

She made no reply, but her eyes regarded him gravely over the edge of the collar. Wrapped in the coat, she seemed for a moment the woman of the alcove.

He looked at her blindly.

She returned the look a minute—and turned away slowly and went out.

Eldridge walked to the table and stood looking down.... He had given her, in all, not more than two hundred and fifty dollars. Did she expect him—to believe—that all the things that had come into the house since had not cost more than fifty dollars?

It was as if she flaunted it at him—as if she wanted him to know that it could not have been his money that bought it!... So that was it! She had seen—she had guessed the change in him—and this was her guard? She would force him to know—to accuse her.

Old Barstow’s words came to him mockingly: “No—she will not contest it. She wants—to be—free.”

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