The Pauncefotes’ work was over for the day. The house had been thoroughly aired, two rooms had been cleaned, their quarters had been put in order, a report had been written, letters had been re-addressed. The latter lay in a pile upon the turf, awaiting the postman. “Jean,” said Oliver suddenly, “we’ve much to be thankful for.” “Yes,” said his wife, “we have.” “We had much more once,” said Pauncefote. “But it never occurred to us then.” Jean shook her beautiful head. “We never had more,” she said, “to be thankful for. We never had half so much. Still, we might have been grateful.” “We had more, really,” said Oliver, “but we didn’t appreciate it. Now that we’ve been through the mill——” “I never had more,” said Jean. There was a silence. At length— “What do you mean?” said Oliver. “I mean I’ve got down to the ale.” There was another silence. “I’m afraid it’s been rather bitter, dear,” said Oliver. “Ale is bitter sometimes, but it warms the blood. I think I count with you now. Why, I don’t know, but you talked in your sleep once. . . .” “What did I say?” “It was the night of my birthday—six weeks ago. You seemed worried to death. ‘I want her to have some flowers,’ you kept on saying. ‘I want her to have some flowers—my . . . darling . . . wife.’ And then you said, ‘It’s too late now’—over and over again. And then you laughed terribly and said, ‘A present from Eden.’” Oliver sat upright and put out his hand. “That’s why you never had them,” he said. “I was afraid . . . they’d seem a travesty . . . because they were—too late.” Jean put her hand in his. “You called me ‘your darling wife.’ You. After what I’d said and done. Remembered my rotten birthday—wanted to give me blossoms when you couldn’t afford to smoke.” “Do I count with you, Jean—now?” “You always counted, Oliver; but, because it wasn’t the fashion, I covered it up. I broke out that night to see if I counted with you. And when I found I didn’t, I made up my mind to kill my love for you.” “You did count, dear,” said Oliver. “Down at the bottom of things. But I think I’d rather have died than let it appear. It seems very silly now, but—I was ashamed. When I was alone in the room, I used to kiss your gloves; but when you came in—well, I didn’t so often kiss you. Even that night at the _Rhin_, with all the openings you gave me——” “You saw them?” “Yes. But I couldn’t step in. It was Balaam’s ass over again, with Sentiment full in the way with a drawn sword. I think—I believe I could have done it if we’d been in the dark. As it was, I was on the edge. . . . And then you landed me one—a regular stinger. . . . You said you kissed other men, and you mentioned—Pat Lafone.” Jean nodded. “I did it to get a rise,” she said quietly. “It—it wasn’t true.” Oliver’s grasp tightened.