An obliterating fire blazed up in Wilfred’s eyes. From across the table, sly and shining, they sought her eyes compellingly. She quickly hid her eyes. The corners of her mouth were obstinately turned up “Certainly not!” she said in wifely tones. “After what you just told me! . . . One of us has got to show some sense!” There was a silence. The dining-room was full of comfort. “You are the one who has given up things,” said Frances Mary. “I have found myself in marriage, and grown fat; while you . . .” “In seven years his face had become a little greyed; but was still capable of lighting up wonderfully,” chanted Wilfred. “You goose!” “I needed the halter,” said Wilfred. “I was all over the place.” “Look here,” she said, “if by some miracle I should write a masterpiece to-morrow, it wouldn’t hurt you nearly as much as it would seven years ago, would it?” “Oh no,” he said. “Then I was raw with vanity. The mere blowing of the wind hurt me.” “Well then; it won’t be written for another seven years, if ever. By that time you will be more pleased than if you had written it yourself.” “Not quite that,” said Wilfred grinning; “still . . .” She picked up a fresh pair of socks. “You could do a little more on your novel now,” she hazarded. He shook his head. “We’ve got nearly three hundred dollars in the bank.” “There’s my life insurance next month; and I have to get a little ahead with the next payment on the house.” “I wish we’d never saddled ourselves with this house,” she said equably. “We ought to be renters; free to flit.” “I know,” said Wilfred; “but it’s fine for the children to have a fixed spot to grow in; a rock to fix their little tentacles to—or should it be on?” “I dunno. . . . Anyhow, there are those two stories you sold in England.” “They only pay on publication. It may be six months before we get the money.” “It’s all right if we don’t spend it more than once. Borrow until it comes.” He shook his head. “That would only be another worry.” “Wilfred, you don’t take chances enough,” she said. “Really, you don’t. We always get along somehow.” “The children . . .” “Bread and milk don’t cost much. And a dish of soup and greens.” “Shoes do.” “They don’t mind patched shoes.” “I do.” “Vanity again!” “Sure! . . . I’m not satisfied. With this, I mean. We need so many things. It’s important that they should have a nice place to grow up in.” Fanny’s thoughts veered off. Raising her head, she smiled away in the direction of the window. “Stephen was so funny to-day,” she said. Wilfred took a light from her smile, “How?” he asked eagerly. “When I lifted him out of the tub this morning he yelled bloody murder as he always does, and I said: ‘Oh, for shame!’ To my astonishment he stopped in the middle of a yell, and looked at me in such a funny, resentful way. It was the first time I ever reached his consciousness with words.”