With a dexterity born of experience Harry Randall looked up from his labor of separating the zone of carbon from the smaller segment of chop that had escaped the ravages of a superheated frying-pan and smiled across the table at his wife.

“On the contrary,” he said, refuting a pessimistic observation previously made by the person addressed, “I think you’re doing fine. I can see a distinct improvement every month. On the whole you’re really becoming an admirable cook.”

“Undoubtedly!” The voice dripped with irony. “That very chop, for instance—”

“Is merely a case in point,” amiably. “Some people, unscientific people, might contend that it was overdone; but the initiated—that’s us—know better. Meat, particularly from the genus hog, should always be well cooked. It 111 obviates the possibility of trichina infection absolutely.”

“And those biscuits,” equivocally. “I’ll wager they’d sink like steel billets.”

Her husband inspected the articles designated with a judicial eye.

“Better so. We’re thus saved the temptation of eating them. All statistics prove that hot biscuits and dyspepsia—”

“The salad, then,” wearily.

“Hygienic beyond a doubt. The superabundance of seasoning to which you doubtless refer may be unusual; nevertheless, it’s a leaning in the right direction. Condiments of all kinds tend to stimulate the flow of the gastric juice; and that, you know, from your physiology, is what does the digestive business.”

Margery Randall laughed, against her will.

“And last of all the coffee,” she suggested.

“Frankly, as coffee, it is a little peculiar; but considered as hot water merely, it leaves nothing to be desired; and science teaches again that, like condiments, hot water—”

The two laughed together; temporarily the atmosphere cleared.

“Seriously, Harry,” asked the girl, “do you really think I’ll ever get so I can cook things 112 that aren’t an insult?” She swept the indigestible repast between them with a hopeless look. “I’m trying my best, but at times like this I get discouraged.”

“Certainly you will,” with conviction. “Now this bread, for instance,” he held up a slice to illustrate, “is as good as any one can make.”

“And unfortunately was one of the few things that I didn’t make. It’s bakery bread, of course, silly.”

Randall dropped the offending staff of life as though it were hot.

“These cookies, then.” He munched one with the pleasure of an epicure. “They’re good thoroughly.”

“Elice Gleason baked them for me to-day,” icily. “She was here all the afternoon.”

An instant of silence followed; glancing half sheepishly across the board Randall saw something that made him arise from his seat abruptly.

“Margery, little girl,” his arms were around her. “Don’t take it so seriously. It’s all a joke, honest.” With practised skill he kissed away the two big tears that were rapidly gathering. “Of course you’ll learn; every one has 113 to have practice; and it’s something you never did before, something entirely new.”

“That’s just the point,” repeated the girl. The suddenly aroused tears had ceased to flow, but she still looked the image of despondency. “It’s something I’ve never had to do, and I’ll never learn. I’ve been trying for practically a year now and things get worse and worse.”

“Not worse,” hopefully; “you merely think so. You’re just a bit discouraged and tired to-night—that’s all.”

“I know it and, besides, I can’t help it.” She was winking hard again against two fresh tears. “I spoiled two cakes this afternoon. Elice tried to show me how to make them; and I burned my finger”—she held up a swaddled member for inspection—“horribly. I just can’t do this housework, Harry, just simply can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” Once more the two teary recruits vanished by the former method. “You can do anything.”

The girl shook her head with a determination premeditated.

“No; I repeat that I’ve tried, and it’s been a miserable failure. I—think we’ll have to have the maid back again, for good.”

“The maid!” Randall laughed, but not so 114 spontaneously as was normal. “We don’t want a maid bothering around, Margery. We want to be alone.” He had a brilliant thought, speedily reduced to action. “How could I treat injured fingers like this properly if there was a maid about?”

“There wouldn’t be any burned fingers then,” refuted the girl. Intentionally avoiding the other’s look, she arose from the neglected dinner-table decisively and, the man following slowly, led the way to the living-room. “Joking aside,” she continued as she dropped into a convenient seat, “I mean it, seriously. I’ve felt this way for a long time, and to-day has been the climax. I simply won’t spend my life cooking and dusting and—and washing dishes. Life’s too short.”

From out the depths of the big davenport Harry Randall inspected steadily the rebellious little woman opposite. He did not answer at once, it was not his way; but he was thinking seriously. To say that the present moment was a surprise would be false. For long, straws had indicated the trend of the wind, and he was not blind. There was an excuse for the attitude, too. He was just enough to realize that. As she had said, she was born differently, bred 115 differently, educated to a life of ease. And he, Harry Randall, had known it from the first, knew it when he married her. Just now, to be sure, he was financially flat, several months ahead of his meagre salary; but that did not alter the original premise, the original obligation. He remembered this now as he looked at her, remembered and decided—the only way it seemed to him possible an honorable man could decide.

“Very well, Margery,” he said gravely, “you may have the maid back, of course, if you wish it. I had hoped we might get along for a time, while we were paying for the things in the house, anyway; but”—he looked away—“I guess we’ll manage it somehow.”

“Somehow!” Margery glanced at him with only partial comprehension. “Is it really as bad as that, as hopeless?”

Randall smiled the slow smile that made his smooth face seem fairly boyish.

“I don’t know exactly what you mean by bad, or hopeless; but it’s a fact that so far we’ve been spending a good deal more than my income.”

“I’m sorry, dear, really.” It was the contrition of one absolutely unaccustomed to consideration of ways and means, uncomprehending. 116 “Particularly so just now with winter coming on and—and girls, you know, have to get such a lot of things for winter.”

This time Randall did not smile; neither did he show irritation.

“What, for instance?” he inquired directly.

“Oh, a tailored suit for one thing, and a winter hat, and high shoes, and—and a lot of things.”

“Do you really need them, Margery?” It was prosaic pathos, but pathos nevertheless. “There’s coal to be bought, you know, and my life insurance comes due next month. I don’t want to seem to be stingy, you know that; but—” he halted miserably.

“Need them!” It was mild vexation. “Of course I need them, silly. A girl can’t go around when the thermometer’s below zero with net shirtwaists and open-work stockings.”

“Of course,” quickly. With an effort the smile returned. “Order what you need. I’ll take care of that too”—he was going to repeat “somehow,” then caught himself—“as soon as I can,” he substituted.

The girl looked at him smilingly.

“Poor old Harry, henpecked Harry,” she bantered gayly. Crossing over, her arms went 117 around his neck. “Have an awful lot of troubles, don’t you, professor man!”

The argument was irresistible and Randall capitulated.

“No, none whatever,” he answered, as he was expected to answer; and once more sweet peace rested on the house of Randall.

Back in her place opposite once more Margery looked at her husband seriously, a pucker of perplexity on her smooth face.

“By the way,” she digressed, “I’ve been wondering for some time now if anything’s wrong with Elice and Steve. Has he hinted anything to you?”

“No; why?”

“Oh, I don’t know anything definite; but he’s been here three evenings the last week, you know, Sunday evening for one at that, and it looks queer.”

“I’ve noticed it too,” admitted Randall, “and he’s coming again this evening. He asked permission and I couldn’t well refuse. Not that I don’t like to have him come,” quickly, “but it interferes with my lectures next morning.”

“And with our own evenings. I—just wish he wouldn’t come so often.”

Randall said nothing, but unconsciously he 118 was stroking the bald spot already appearing on the crown of his head in a way he had when worried.

“And, besides,” justified Margery, “it isn’t treating Elice right. I think it’s a shame.”

This time the man looked up.

“She didn’t say anything, intimate anything, I hope?” he hesitated.

“Of course not. It isn’t her way. She’s—queer for a woman, Elice is; she never gets confidential, no matter how good an opportunity you offer.” A pause followed that spoke volumes. “Agnes Simpson, though, says there is something the matter—with Steve at least. They’re talking about it in the department.”

“Talking about what, Margery?” soberly. “He’s a friend of ours, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” the voice was swift with a pent-up secret, “and we’ve tried hard to be nice to him; but, after all, we’re not to blame that he—drinks!”

“Margery!” It was open disapproval this time, a thing unusual for Harry Randall. “We mustn’t listen to such gossip, either of us. Steve and I have been chums for years and years and—we simply mustn’t listen to such things at all.” 119

For an instant the girl was silent; then the brown head tossed rebelliously.

“Well, I can’t help it if people talk; and it isn’t fair of you to suppose that I pass it on either—except to you. You know that I—” she checked herself. “It isn’t as though Agnes was the only one either,” she defended. “I’ve heard it several times lately.” Inspiration came and she looked at her husband directly. “Honest, Harry, haven’t you heard it too?”

The man hesitated, and on the instant solid ground vanished from beneath his feet.

“Yes, I have,” he admitted weakly. “It’s a burning shame too that people will concoct—” He halted suddenly, listening. His eyes went to the clock. “I had no idea it was so late,” he digressed as the bell rang loudly. “That’s Steve now. I know his ring.”

Alone in the up-stairs study, which with its folding-bed was likewise spare sleeping-room and again smoking-room,—Margery had not yet surrendered to the indiscriminate presence of tobacco smoke,—Steve Armstrong ignored the chair Randall had proffered and remained standing, his hands deep in his trousers’ pockets, a look new to his friend—one restless, akin to reckless—on his usually good-humored face. 120 Contrary again to precedent his dress was noticeably untidy, an impression accentuated by a two-days’ growth of beard and by neglected linen. That something far from normal was about to transpire Randall knew at a glance, but courteously seemed not to notice. Instead, with a familiar wave, he indicated the cigar-jar he kept on purpose for visitors and took a pipe himself.

“I haven’t had my after-dinner smoke yet,” he commented. “Better light up with me. It always tastes better when one has company.”

“Thanks.” Armstrong made a selection absently and struck a match; but, the unlighted cigar in his fingers, let the match burn dead. “I don’t intend to bother you long,” he plunged without preface. “I know you want to work.” He glanced nervously at the door to see that it was closed. “I just wanted to have a little talk with you, a—little heart-to-heart talk.”

“Yes.” Randall’s face showed no surprise, but his pipe bowl was aglow and his free hand was caressing his bald spot steadily.

“Frankly, old man,” the other had fallen back into his former position, his hands concealed, his attitude stiffly erect, “I’m in the deuce of a 121 frame of mind to-night—and undecided.” He laughed shortly. “You’re the remedy that occurred to me.”

“Yes,” Randall repeated, this time with the slow smile, “I am a sort of remedy. Sit down and tell me about it. I’m receptive at least.”

“Sit down! I can’t, Harry.” The restless look became one of positive repugnance. “I haven’t been able to for a half-hour at a stretch for a week.”

“Try it anyway,” bluntly. “It won’t do you any harm to try.”

“Nor any good either. I know.” He threw himself into a seat with a nervous scowl upon his face. “I haven’t been able to do any real work for an age, which is worse,” he continued. “My lectures lately have been a disgrace to the college. No one knows it better than myself.”

A moment Randall hesitated, but even yet he did not put an inquiry direct.

“Yes?” he suggested again.

“I’m stale, I guess, or have lost my nerve or—or something.” Armstrong smiled,—a crooked smile that failed to extinguish the furrows on his forehead. “By the way, have you got a little superfluous nerve lying about that you could stake me with?” 122

Randall echoed the laugh, because it seemed the only possible answer, but that was all.

In the silence that followed Armstrong looked at his friend opposite, the nervous furrow between his eyes deepening.

“I suppose you’re wondering,” he began at last, “just what’s the matter with me and what I want of you. Concerning the first, there’s a lot I might say, but I won’t; I’ll spare you. As to what I want to ask of you—Frankly, Harry, straight to the point and conventional reticence aside, ought I to marry or oughtn’t I?” He caught the other’s expression and answered it quickly. “I know this is a peculiar thing to ask and seems, looking at it from some angles, something I shouldn’t ask; but you know all the circumstances between Elice and me and, in a way, our positions are a good deal similar. Just what do you think? Don’t hesitate to tell me exactly.”

In his seat Randall shifted uncomfortably; to gain time he filled his pipe afresh,—a distinct dissipation for the man of routine that he was.

“Frankly, as you suggest, Steve,” he answered finally, “I’d rather not discuss the subject, rather not advise. It’s—you know why—so big and personal.” 123

“I realize that and have apologized already for bringing it up; but I can’t decide myself—I’ve tried; and Elice—there are reasons why she can’t assist now either. It’s—” he made a motion to rise, but checked himself—“it’s something that has to be decided now too.”

“Has to?” Randall’s eyes behind the big lens of his glasses were suddenly keen. “Why, Steve?”

“Because it’s now or never,” swiftly. “I’ve—we’ve hesitated until we can’t delay any longer. I’m not sure that it’s not been too long already, that’s why Elice can’t figure.” He drew himself up with an effort, held himself still. “We’ve crossed the dividing line, Elice and I, and we’re drifting apart. Just how the thing has come about I don’t know; but it’s true. We’re on different roads somehow and we’re getting farther apart every month.” He sprang to his feet, his face turned away. “Soon—It’s simply hell, Harry!”

Randall sat still; recollecting, he laughed,—a laugh that he tried to make natural.

“Oh, pshaw!” He laughed again. “You’re mixing up some of the novels you’re writing with real life. This sort of thing is nonsense, pure nonsense.” 124

“No, it’s so,” flatly. “I’ve tried hard enough to think it different, but I couldn’t because it is so. It’s hell, I say!”

“Don’t you love her, man?” abruptly.

“Love her!” Armstrong wheeled, his face almost fierce. “Of course I love her. A hundred times yes. I’m a cursed fool over her.”

“Sit down then and tell me just what’s on your mind. You’re magnifying a mole-hill of some kind into a snow-capped peak. Sit down, please. You—irritate me that way.”

A second Armstrong hesitated. His face a bit flushed, he obeyed.

“That’s better.” The brusqueness was deliberately intentional. “Now out with it, clear the atmosphere. I’m listening.”

Armstrong looked at his friend a bit suspiciously; but the mood was too strong upon him to cease now even if he would.

“Just what do you wish to know?” he asked in tentative prelude. “Give me a clew.”

“What you wish to tell me,” evenly. “Neither more nor less.”

“You have no curiosity?”

Randall made no comment this time, merely waited.

“Very well, then, if you have no curiosity.... 125 I don’t know how much to tell you anyway, what you don’t already know. As I said when I first came in, I didn’t have it in mind to bore you at all, I just wanted to ask your opinion—” The speaker halted and hurriedly lit the cigar he had been holding. “To jump into the thick of it, I got a little letter from the president to-day, a little—warning.” Armstrong smoked fiercely until the flame lit up his face. “It’s the bitterest humiliation of my life, Harry, the last straw!”