"Yes, she does," said Roger grimly; "she minds like the devil. She's a shortsighted little egg, and she thinks it's going to be forever until I get started and she can have some new clothes. But it can't be helped. The saddest thing about women is that, after all, their best trick is to sit down and fold their hands." "Your ideas on women are about twenty years out of date," said Tompkins pityingly. "Women won't sit down and wait any more." "Then they'd better marry men of forty," insisted Roger stubbornly. "If a girl marries a young man for love she ought to be willing to make any sacrifice within reason, so long as her husband keeps going ahead." "Let's not talk about it," said Gretchen impatiently. "Please, Roger, let's have a good time just this once." When Tompkins dropped them in front of their house at eleven Roger and Gretchen stood for a moment on the sidewalk looking at the winter moon. There was a fine, damp, dusty snow in the air, and Roger drew a long breath of it and put his arm around Gretchen exultantly. "I can make more money than he can," he said tensely. "And I'll be doing it in just forty days." "Forty days," she sighed. "It seems such a long time--when everybody else is always having fun. If I could only sleep for forty days." "Why don't you, honey? Just take forty winks, and when you wake up everything'll be fine." She was silent for a moment. "Roger," she asked thoughtfully, "do you think George meant what he said about taking me horseback riding on Sunday?" Roger frowned. "I don't know. Probably not--I hope to Heaven he didn't." He hesitated. "As a matter of fact, he made me sort of sore to-night--all that junk about his cold bath." With their arms about each other, they started up the walk to the house. "I'll bet he doesn't take a cold bath every morning," continued Roger ruminatively; "or three times a week, either." He fumbled in his pocket for the key and inserted it in the lock with savage precision. Then he turned around defiantly. "I'll bet he hasn't had a bath for a month." II After a fortnight of intensive work, Roger Halsey's days blurred into each other and passed by in blocks of twos and threes and fours. From eight until 5.30 he was in his office. Then a half-hour on the commuting train, where he scrawled notes on the backs of envelopes under the dull yellow light. By 7.30 his crayons, shears, and sheets of white cardboard were spread over the living-room table, and he labored there with much grunting and sighing until midnight, while Gretchen lay on the sofa with a book, and the door-bell tinkled occasionally behind the drawn blinds. At twelve there was always an argument as to whether he would come to bed. He would agree to come after he had cleared up everything; but as he was invariably sidetracked by half a dozen new ideas, he usually found Gretchen sound asleep when he tiptoed up-stairs.