"Keep your money. These are jewels beyond price." He tumbled himself lazily into a big leather chair. "What they tell about that paper of theirs is amazing. I'm beginning to see some reason for the hostility which the working-class has for the 'intellectuals.' If Isadore had asked my advice,--or any of the college-bred Socialists in New York,--he'd have been told that it was absolutely impossible to pull through with a daily. Well, the working-class knew what they wanted and darned if they didn't get it! It's amazing!" "Walter, if I really believed that was what you'd been thinking about, I'd kiss you." "I don't see why you shouldn't do both," he said, making room for her in the chair beside him. But seeing a suspicious glitter in her eyes, he sprang up. "Why, B.! You're crying! What's the matter?" She put her hands on his shoulders and looked searchingly in his face. "Honest? Cross your heart to die? Weren't you thinking about Yetta?" "You little idiot," he said, with the glow which comes to a man who is being indirectly flattered. "Been jealous, have you?" He picked her up in his arms. "Let's go out on the porch. I'll tell you everything she said to me--and then we'll look up at the moon." * * * * * "Well," Yetta said, settling herself in the compartment of the train, as the lights of Oxford slipped past the windows, "I'm glad we visited them." Isadore moved uneasily. "It wasn't unpleasant?" he asked in Yiddish--so that the other passengers might not understand. "I don't feel as if I showed up very well in comparison to Walter." She leaned forward so she could look him squarely in the face. "Isadore!" she said in an aggrieved tone, "can't men ever understand women--not even the very simplest things? Three years I wasted dreaming--no; I won't say 'wasted.' I haven't any quarrel with my girlhood. Three years I dreamed about him. But it's four years now--four years--that I've lived with you. Can't you understand how immense that difference seems to a woman? There are some of my ideas, perhaps, some of my intellect that he's father of. But, Isadore, you're the father of my children." "Yes," he said, somewhat comforted. "I think I can understand a little of that--but--well, I never wished I had money so much before. I wish I could give you the things Walter would have." "Don't you do any mourning about that," she said brazenly, "till I begin it." She slipped her hand into his, indifferent to the other passengers. Her conscience hurt a little on this score, for after all she had envied Beatrice's opportunity to be beautiful. They sat silent for quite a long interval. "I'm glad we visited them," she went on. "But I'm gladder that we're started home again. I'm crazy to get back." "Worrying about the kids?"