While little Tony had been growing, waxing strong and sturdy: while Juliet had been tending and training him, learning, as every mother does, more than she could impart: Anthony, in his place, had not stood still. The strength and determination he had from the first hour put into his daily work had begun to tell. His position in a great mercantile establishment had steadily advanced as he had made himself more and more indispensable to its heads.

Cathcart, the successful architect, began to talk about a new home for the man into whose hands Henderson and Henderson were putting large interests to manage for them, and whose salary, he asserted, must now justify, indeed call for, life under more ideal surroundings than the little home in the unfashionable suburb which poverty had at first made necessary.

“Let me draw some plans for you,” urged Cathcart, one evening in June, when he had run out to see his friend. Juliet was by chance away, and Cathcart took advantage of this to call Anthony’s attention, in a politely frank fashion, to the shortcomings of his present residence. “It’s all right in its way,” he said, standing upon a corner of the lawn with Anthony, and surveying the house critically. “Mrs. Robeson certainly deserves full credit for the admirable way in which she restored the old house and added just the changes in keeping with its possibilities. I’ve always said it couldn’t have been better done, with the means you’ve told me you were able to put at her disposal. But the place is too small for you now.”

“I don’t think we feel it so,” said Anthony tentatively, strolling beside Cathcart along the edge of the lawn, his hands in his pockets, lifting friendly eyes at the little house. “Since we put in the bathroom—that small room off the upper hall, you know—and added the nursery and den, we’re very comfortable. The furnace keeps us warm as toast, and we’re soon to have the water system out here, so we won’t have to depend upon our present expedients. I’m fond of the place, and I’m confident Mrs. Robeson is devoted to it.”

“I can understand that,” agreed Cathcart. “Of course, the spot where you began life together will always have its charm for you both—in fact the sentiment of the matter may blind you to the real inadequacies of the place for a man in your position.”

“My position isn’t so stable that I want to build a marble palace on it yet,” said Anthony, a humorous twinkle in his eye. He enjoyed watching another man manoeuvre for his favourable hearing of a scheme. It was an art in which he was himself accomplished; it was one of the points of his value to Henderson and Henderson.

“Everybody knows that you’re in a fair way to become head man with the Hendersons,” said Cathcart, “and everybody also knows that you might as well have struck a gold-mine. It’s superb, the way you have come into the confidence of those old conservatives.”

“That’s all well enough; but I don’t see that it entails upon me the duty of laying out all I’ve saved on a new house. I know what you fellows are—when you begin to draw plans your love of the ideal runs away with the other man’s pocketbook.”

“Not at all,” declared Cathcart. “Particularly when he’s a friend and you understand just what he can afford to do.”

“Why don’t you talk about enlarging the old house? That’s much more likely to appeal to my desires.”

The two had reached the back of the house and were close by the kitchen windows. Cathcart reached up and took hold of a sill. With a strong hand he wrenched and pounded about the window, until he succeeded in showing that it was old and uncertain.

“That’s why,” he said, dusting his hand with his handkerchief. “The house is old—fairly rotten in places. The minute you began to enlarge it in any ambitious way you’d find it would be cheaper to tear it down and begin again. But the site, Robeson—the site isn’t desirable. The place is respectable enough, but it has no future. The good building is all going south, not north, of the city. You don’t want to spend a lot of money here—you couldn’t sell out except at a loss.”

“Your arguments are good, very good,” admitted Anthony; “so good that I’d like to put you on your mettle to draw me a set of plans for just the sort of thing you think I ought to have—or Mrs. Robeson ought to have, for she’s the one to be considered. Anything will do for me. I’ll let you do this—on one condition.”

“Name it.”

“That you also do your level best to demonstrate to me what a clever man and an artist of your proportions could make out of this house, provided he really wanted to show the extent of his ability. Now, that’s fair. If you really care to convince me you won’t fool with this proposition, you’ll make a study of the one problem as thoroughly as you do of the other, and let me decide the case on its merits. If I thought you weren’t giving the old house a fair chance I should take up its cause out of pure affection.”

He smiled at Cathcart’s discontented face with so brilliant a good humour that the architect cleared up.

“By Jove, Robeson,” he said, “I think I see what endears you to the Hendersons. I wouldn’t have said you could have induced me to try my hand at the old house, but I’ll be hanged if I don’t follow your instructions to the letter—and win out, too.”

“Good,” said Anthony. “And don’t mention it to my wife. We’ll keep it for a surprise; and I promise you when the time comes I won’t prejudice her in any way.”

Cathcart drew out a notebook and pencil and entered some memoranda on the spot, while Anthony, coming up on the piazza of the dining-room, laid upon the old Dutch house-door a hand which seemed to caress it. He was wondering if by any possible magic Cathcart could create, in the rarest abode in the world, a new door which he should ever care to enter as he now cared to enter this.

“I think,” said Juliet decidedly, “you’re wrong about it.”

“And I know,” returned Anthony with emphasis, “that you are.”

The two faced each other. They were walking through a short stretch of woodland, which lay as yet untouched by the hand of suburban property owners. It was a favourite ground for the diversions of the Robesons, when they had not time to spend in getting farther away. They had been strolling through it now, in the early June evening, discussing a matter relative to the investment of a certain moderate sum of money which had come into Anthony’s hands. It developed that their ideas about it differed radically.

“It’s not safe to do as you propose,” said Juliet.

“To do what you propose would be only one better than tying it up in an old stocking—or putting it away in the coffee pot. It’s essentially a woman’s plan—no man would do it the honour of considering it a moment.”

Juliet flushed brilliantly. Even in Anthony’s cheek the colour rose a little. Their eyes met with a challenge.

“Very well,” said Juliet proudly. “I’ll offer no more woman’s plans. Invest the money as you like. Then, when you’ve lost it——”

Anthony’s eyes flashed. “When I’ve lost it——” he began, and turned away with a gesture of impatience. Then he stopped short. “That isn’t like you,” he said.

Juliet stared at him an instant. Then she shut her lips together and walked on in silence. Anthony shut his lips together also. It was not their habit to indulge in sharp altercation. While both had decided ideas about things, both were also much too well bred to be willing to allow differences of opinion—which must arise as inevitably as two human beings live under the same roof—to degenerate into the deplorable thing commonly referred to as a quarrel.

When they had proceeded a few rods Juliet turned abruptly off from the path and picked up from the ground a slender straight stick, evidently cut and trimmed by some boy and then thrown aside. She looked about her and after some search found another, of similar size, untrimmed. She held out the latter to Anthony. He accepted it with a look of surprise. Then she walked into the path in front of him, stood stiff and straight, her small heels together, and made him the fencer’s salute. “On guard!” she cried.

His lips relaxing, Anthony grasped his stick and fell into position. A moment more and two accomplished fencers were engaged in close combat.

Juliet happened to be wearing a trim linen skirt of short walking length, which impeded her movements as slightly as anything not strictly adapted to the exercise could do. Although her fencing lessons were some years past, the paraphernalia belonging both to herself and Anthony were in the house, and an occasional bout with the masks and foils was a means of exercise and diversion which both thoroughly enjoyed. Although Juliet was no match for the superior skill and endurance of her husband, she was nevertheless no mean antagonist, and her alertness of eye and hand usually gave him sufficient to do to make the encounter a stimulating one.

On the present occasion Anthony, challenged to combat with his coat and cuffs on, and wielding the more awkward weapon of the two impromptu foils, found himself distinctly at a disadvantage. Moreover, he was at the moment not precisely in the mood for fun, and he began to defend himself with a somewhat lazy indifference. After a minute or two, however, he discovered that his adversary’s slightly ruffled temper was inspiring her hand and wrist to distinctly effective work, and he found himself forced to look to his methods.

Attack and parade, disengagement and thrust—the battle was waged over the uneven ground of the wood. And presently Anthony discovered that the richly glowing face opposite his was a smiling one. The absurdity of the match struck him irresistibly and he smiled in return. He tripped a little over an obtruding oak-root, and Juliet took advantage of her opportunity to press him hard. He fended off the attack and himself assumed the aggressive. An instant more and he had disarmed her and had thrown his own stick flying after hers. Both were laughing heartily enough.

“Forgive the trick,” cried Anthony. “A man must disarm his wife when she becomes his enemy.”

Breathless, Juliet sank upon a small knoll, her hand at her side. “If I’d been dressed for it—” she panted.

“You need coaching on your time thrusts, but you gave me plenty to do as it was,” Anthony admitted. “More than that, you’ve presented me with a chance to recover my equilibrium. I was hot inside before. Now it’s all on the outside.”

He looked down at her affectionately. She smiled back. “I was crosser than sticks,” she said. “I really can’t imagine why, now. I apologise.”

“So do I.” He threw himself down on the ground at her feet, lay flat on his back, his clasped hands behind his head, and gazed up into the tree-tops.

“I’ll take your advice into careful consideration,” said he.

“I know you won’t do anything rash,” said she, and they both laughed again.

“How much more diplomatic that sort of talk is,” he observed. “Why do we ever allow ourselves to use any other?”

“Because we are human, I suppose.” Juliet was putting a mass of waving brown hair, disordered by the fight, into shape again. “It isn’t nice. We don’t do it often. To-night you came home tired, and found a wife who had been entertaining people from town all the afternoon. But it’s all right now, isn’t it?”

She bent forward, and Anthony took her outstretched hand in his own and gave it a grip which made it sting. He began to whistle cheerfully.

“Should we be happier if we never disagreed?” she asked thoughtfully.

The whistle stopped. “Jupiter, no! I want a thinking being to talk things over with, not a mental pincushion.”

“Thank you.—Isn’t it lovely here?”

“Delightful.—Julie, do you know we’ll have been married five years next September?”

“It doesn’t seem possible.”

“I shouldn’t know it, to look at you,” he observed. He rolled upon his left side and regarded her from under intent brows. “You haven’t grown a day older.”

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”

“It’s meant for one. Do you know you’re a beauty?”

“I never was one and never shall be,” she answered laughing, but she could not object to the obvious sincerity of his opinion as he delivered it.

“You’re near enough to satisfy me. I’d rather have your good looks than all the—Well, I sat in front of a newly married pair on the way home to-night—that fellow Scrivener and his bride. She’s what people call a raving beauty, I suppose. I wouldn’t have her in the house at a dollar an hour. She’s a whiner. Had him doing something to satisfy her whim every minute. I heard him trying to tell her about something that interested him, but she couldn’t take time from herself to listen. His voice had a note of fatigue in it, already, or I’m not Robeson. I tell you, Juliet—that’s the sort of thing that makes a bachelor vow to stay single, and he can’t be blamed.”

“Suppose a bachelor had overheard us half an hour ago?”

“I’m glad none did—but if he had it wouldn’t have disgusted him the way the other sort of thing did me to-day. A brisk little altercation is nothing, with unlimited hours of friendliness and understanding before and after. But a perpetual drizzle of fault finding and exactions—would make a fellow go hang himself. Mrs. Robeson, do you know, you’re a very exceptional young person?”

“In what way, sir?”

“Whatever you do, you never nag. I’ve an awful suspicion that Judith Carey nags. You know how to let a man alone when he’s in the mood for being alone. She never does. Carey had me out there not long ago, for what he called a quiet, confidential talk on some business matters. We went into what is supposed to be his private room and shut the door. Probably she came to that door not less than twelve times during that two hours. She called Carey away on every sort of pretext. Once she got him to do a stroke of work for her that took up at least ten minutes neither of us could spare. And she looked like a thundercloud every time I caught a glimpse of her face. CÆsar!—think of having to live with that sort of person. No wonder Carey looks old before his time.”

“It’s certainly unfortunate. But I’m not an exception, Tony. There are plenty of women who know when to keep out of the way.”

“Well, then, they’re erratic on some other line, that’s all. You’re absolutely the only thoroughly sweet and sane woman I know.”

“My dear boy! Remember how snappish I was just this evening.”

“I was grouchy enough to match it. I tell you, Julie—the women who don’t talk you to death on every subject, important or trivial, bore you with idiotic questions or impertinence about your affairs. How do I know so much about ’em? My dear, dozens of them come into the office every day, and Mr. Henderson has acquired a habit lately of turning them all over to me. I earn a double salary every hour I spend that way—wish I could put in a demand for it. Speaking of salaries, dear”—Anthony suddenly sat up—“I’ve no right to be grouchy, for I’m promised another advance next month.”

“Splendid!” She put out her hand, and the two shook hands vigorously again, like the pair of comrades they were.

“Juliet,” said her husband, watching her face closely. “It’s been a happy five years, hasn’t it?”

“A happy five years, Tony.”

“Do you mean it?” He smiled at her. “You’ve never been sorry?” Then he got to his feet and held out his hand again to help her up. “The mortal combat we engaged in gave you a magnificent colour,” he commented, and passed affectionate fingers across the smooth cheek near his shoulder. “Sweetheart——” he drew her into his arms—“I may fence with you once in a while with sharp words for weapons, but—do you know how I love you?”

“I wonder why?”

“It’s strange, isn’t it?—after all these years. To be really up-to-date, we should long since have become interested each in some other——”

A hand came gently but effectually upon his mouth. He kissed the hand. “No, I won’t say it. It’s a cynical philosophy, and I’ll not take its language on my lips—not with my wife in my arms, giving the lie to that sort of thing. Julie, we’re not sentimentalists because we still care——”

“Who thinks we are?”

“Plenty of envious skeptics, I’ll wager. I see it in their green-eyed glances. They can’t believe it’s genuine. Dear—is it genuine? Look up, and tell me.”

She looked up, and seeing his heart in his eyes, met his deep caress with a tenderness which told him more than she could have put into the words she suddenly found it impossible to speak.