“My dear,” said Bartley, with perfect amiability, for he had slept off his anger, and he really felt sorry to see her so unhappy, “I would tell you almost anything you want on any other subject; but I think we had better remand that one to the safety of silence, and go upon the general supposition that I know what I'm about.” “I can't, Bartley!” “Can't you? Well, that's a pity.” He pulled his chair to the breakfast-table. “It seems to me that girl's imagination always fails her on Mondays. Can she never give us anything but hash and corn-bread when she's going to wash? However, the coffee's good. I suppose _you_ made it?” “Bartley!” persisted Marcia, “I want to believe in everything you do,--I want to be proud of it--” “That will be difficult,” suggested Bartley, with an air of thoughtful impartiality, “for the wife of a newspaper man.” “No, no! It needn't be! It mustn't be! If you will only tell me--” She stopped, as if she feared to repeat her offence. Bartley leaned back in his chair and looked at her intense face with a smile. “Tell you that in some way I had Kinney's authority to use his facts? Well, I should have done that yesterday if you had let me. In the first place, Kinney's the most helpless ass in the world. He could never have used his own facts. In the second place, there was hardly anything in his rigmarole the other day that he hadn't told me down there in the lumber camp, with full authority to use it in any way I liked; and I don't see how he could revoke that authority. That's the way I reasoned about it.” “I see,--I see!” said Marcia, with humble eagerness. “Well, that's all there is about it. What I've done can't hurt Kinney. If he ever does want to write his old facts out, he'll be glad to take my report of them, and--spoil it,” said Bartley, ending with a laugh. “And if--if there had been anything wrong about it,” said Marcia, anxious to justify him to herself, “Mr. Ricker would have told you so when you offered him the article.” “I don't think Mr. Ricker would have ventured on any impertinence with me,” said Bartley, with grandeur. But he lapsed into his wonted, easy way of taking everything. “What are you driving at, Marsh? I don't care particularly for what happened yesterday. We've had rows enough before, and I dare say we shall have them again. You gave me a bad quarter of an hour, and you gave yourself”--he looked at her tear-stained eyes--“a bad night, apparently. That's all there is about it.” “Oh, no, that isn't all! It isn't like the other quarrels we've had. When I think how I've felt toward you ever since, it _scares_ me. There can't be anything sacred in our marriage unless we trust each other in everything.” “Well, _I_ haven't done any of the mistrusting,” said Bartley, with humorous lightness. “But isn't sacred rather a strong word to use in regard to our marriage, anyway?” “Why--why--what do you mean, Bartley? We were married by a minister.”