She looked a little dowdy--felt a little dowdy beside the blond completeness of Della. A disgust of all fashionable dress for mourning had made her rather deliberately choose clothes that were not only not in fashion, but which were somewhat clumsy. And she had cried a great deal and her eyes were heavy and sad. Beautiful as she was, she excited no envy in Della, except in so far as she possessed those jewels. Della knew what to envy. * * * * * Cecily’s house was becoming a refuge for her. She felt it that afternoon as she went back to it. The two eldest children were out in the garden with their nurse, where the lilacs were beginning to bloom and the early green of spring was so exciting and alluring. It cheered even Cecily’s rather dark mood. Spring and healthy children and a home with Dick; what was it she lacked--why was it that she and Dick lacked anything? It ought to be right--it ought to be perfect; and it wasn’t right and it wasn’t perfect. Was Dick cheap, or she deficient in charm? Was the clamor of light living and noise eternally to make their home discordant? She would make it right. With her and the children, with a gayety that was not tawdry; yes, for Dick she would lighten her period of mourning. She looked back on her one talk with her mother about herself and Dick and felt that her mother would want her to make a concession to him. He had been so wonderfully kind during those first weeks. It was only lately that he had seemed restless again and surely it must be possible to swing back again to the beauty of those first years together. * * * * * She found no opening. Dick had gone to Matthew’s house for dinner, so he telephoned. “We didn’t get through in time at the office,” he explained, “and I thought I’d drop off here and finish what I wanted to take up with him. Children all right?” “Quite.” She hung up the receiver. It would have been just as easy to come home, but he didn’t want to come especially. He wanted to go to Matthew’s house. She sat through her dinner, which seemed perfectly tasteless. That night she waited up for Dick, conscious that it was not what he would wish. He came in humming a little. She tried to look casual and succeeded in looking tragic--so tragic that the blithe smile on his face faded quickly into an annoyed concern. “What’s up?” “Nothing. I just thought I’d read a while.” “You should be in bed. It’s nearly midnight.” “I know.” “Sure nothing’s wrong?” “No.” He turned to go up the staircase, but she caught him back with a little cry. “Dick, why aren’t we like we used to be?” He looked at her almost with dislike. “Isn’t it late for psychological discussion? What do you mean?” She faced him with the question which was clamoring in her mind, tugging at her heart all the time. “Dick--do you love me?” It jarred on him unspeakably--this forcing of emotion. “Isn’t that rather an unnecessary question?”