"But how am I different from the person you married, Jerry? I'm what I was yesterday; nothing has changed in our lives; we will work and play and eat and sleep to-morrow as we did yesterday; why do you feel so upset about me?" "But can't you see that you're a stranger to me? You aren't the kind of woman I thought you were!" "But do you think I'm a less desirable companion because I've proved that I have a gift that you did not suspect? I am adding something as a contribution to our common life, not taking anything away." "That's still to be proved." "Why, no, Jerry, it has been proved! I've been proving it ever since we married. The only difference is that yesterday you didn't know it--to-day, you do." "It's my knowing it that makes the difference; you said yourself that it might make a difference in our life together!" "Yes, but I meant a change for the better. I thought you might be a little proud of me--that I'd won a long, hard fight--that you might hold out your hand to me and say: 'Good for you, Partner; now we'll march along together with a new, common interest!'" "I'm sorry to be such a disappointment, Jane. I'm not playing up at all, but this thing has knocked me over. I've got to think it out." He fumbled for his words. "Of course, that's what we must both do." "I do think it's great that your book is accepted," he added lamely. "Thank you, Jerry," she said, and turned to go upstairs, but not before he had seen the tears in her eyes--the first tears he had ever seen Jane shed. CHAPTER XXVII A fairness of judgment was so essentially a part of Jane's equipment that she forced herself to be Jerry for the next few days. She knew him so well, she knew the way his mind worked, because she brought to bear not only her experience in living with him, but her imagination, too. She felt for his distress, even while she marvelled at it. She tucked away for future use this revelation of the diametrically opposed methods by which men and women attack problems. Had it been a more tangible thing, Jerry would have faced it more sanguinely, but in this realm of intellectual mazes and psychological reactions where she lived, poor Jerry was lost. He groped about, perplexed, indignant. Two days after her confession about the book, he took up the matter again. "Now that there is no more secret about your writing, can't you manage to do it at home?" he said. "The point is that I do it better away from home. There is no place here where I can be safe from interruption. The telephone rings, Baby cries, I cannot concentrate." "I do my work here." "Yes, I admire your concentration very much, and envy you it," she said. "I must say, it isn't always convenient for me to stay in all morning, because somebody has to watch the kid." "I'm sure that's true, because I so often want to go out for things in the afternoon. As soon as we can afford it we must get a nurse for him, so that we both will be freer."