Marcia was silenced, but she asked, after a moment, “Then you're going to give up the law, altogether?” “I don't know what I'm going to do; I'm going to do the best I can for the present, and trust to luck. I don't like special reporting, for a finality; but I shouldn't like shystering, either.” “What's shystering?” asked Marcia. “It's pettifogging in the city courts. Wait till I can get my basis,--till I have a fixed amount of money for a fixed amount of work,--and then I'll talk to you about taking up the law again. I'm willing to do it whenever it seems the right thing. I guess I should like it, though I don't see why it's any better than journalism, and I don't believe it has any more prizes.” “But you've been a long time trying to get your basis on a newspaper,” she reasoned. “Why don't you try to get it in some other way? Why don't you try to get a clerk's place with some lawyer?” “Well, suppose I was willing to starve along in that way, how should I go about to get such a place?” demanded Bartley, with impatience. “Why don't you go to that Mr. Halleck you visited here? You used to tell me he was going to be a lawyer.” “Well, if you remember so distinctly what I said about going into the law when I first came to Boston,” said her husband angrily, “perhaps you'll remember that I said I shouldn't go to Halleck until I didn't need his help. I shall not go to him _for_ his help.” Marcia gave way to spiteful tears. “It seems as if you were ashamed to let them know that you were in town. Are you afraid I shall want to get acquainted with them? Do you suppose I shall want to go to their parties, and disgrace you?” Bartley took his cigar out of his mouth, and looked blackly at her. “So, that's what you've been thinking, is it?” She threw herself upon his neck. “No! no, it isn't!” she cried, hysterically. “You know that I never thought it till this instant; you know I didn't think it at all; I just _said_ it. My nerves are all gone; I don't know _what_ I'm saying half the time, and you're as strict with me as if I were as well as ever! I may as well take off my things,--I'm not well enough to go with you, to-day, Bartley.” She had been dressing while they talked for an entertainment which Bartley was going to report for the Chronicle-Abstract; and now she made a feint of wishing to remove her hat. He would not let her. He said that if she did not go, he should not; he reproached her with not wishing to go with him any more; he coaxed her laughingly and fondly. “It's only because I'm not so strong, now,” she said in a whisper that ended in a kiss on his cheek. “You must walk very slowly, and not hurry me.”