"Of course I did," she said impatiently. "Why not? You're always talking about what a terrible neighborhood this is, and I thought maybe you'd like to go to a nicer one for a change." "When I go to a nicer neighborhood I want to go for good," he said grimly. "Well, can we go?" "I suppose we'll have to if you've accepted." Somewhat to his annoyance the conversation abruptly ended. Gretchen jumped up and kissed him sketchily and rushed into the kitchen to light the hot water for a bath. With a sigh he carefully deposited his portfolio behind the bookcase--it contained only sketches and layouts for display advertising, but it seemed to him the first thing a burglar would look for. Then he went abstractedly up-stairs, dropped into the baby's room for a casual moist kiss, and began dressing for dinner. They had no automobile, so George Tompkins called for them at 6.30. Tompkins was a successful interior decorator, a broad, rosy man with a handsome mustache and a strong odor of jasmine. He and Roger had once roomed side by side in a boarding-house in New York, but they had met only intermittently in the past five years. "We ought to see each other more," he told Roger to-night. "You ought to go out more often, old boy. Cocktail?" "No, thanks." "No? Well, your fair wife will--won't you, Gretchen?" "I love this house," she exclaimed, taking the glass and looking admiringly at ship models, Colonial whiskey bottles, and other fashionable débris of 1925. "I like it," said Tompkins with satisfaction. "I did it to please myself, and I succeeded." Roger stared moodily around the stiff, plain room, wondering if they could have blundered into the kitchen by mistake. "You look like the devil, Roger," said his host. "Have a cocktail and cheer up." "Have one," urged Gretchen. "What?" Roger turned around absently. "Oh, no, thanks. I've got to work after I get home." "Work!" Tompkins smiled. "Listen, Roger, you'll kill yourself with work. Why don't you bring a little balance into your life--work a little, then play a little?" "That's what I tell him," said Gretchen. "Do you know an average business man's day?" demanded Tompkins as they went in to dinner. "Coffee in the morning, eight hours' work interrupted by a bolted luncheon, and then home again with dyspepsia and a bad temper to give the wife a pleasant evening." Roger laughed shortly. "You've been going to the movies too much," he said dryly. "What?" Tompkins looked at him with some irritation. "Movies? I've hardly ever been to the movies in my life. I think the movies are atrocious. My opinions on life are drawn from my own observations. I believe in a balanced life." "What's that?" demanded Roger. "Well"--he hesitated--"probably the best way to tell you would be to describe my own day. Would that seem horribly egotistic?" "Oh, no!" Gretchen looked at him with interest. "I'd love to hear about it."