"In the flat you and Lucille had. Lucille likes it." "How can she?" sighed Marjorie. "Well, she's never tried this. . . . I wonder what I'd better do? I think I heard something about a place where they have flats just for business women. Perhaps Billy could arrange for me to get one before they're all gone. He always loved attending to things like that for people. I can't go back to Cousin Anna. I've been through too much. Why, you mayn't think it, but I'm grown up, Francis! I'm about twenty years older than that foolish little girl you married. I--I wonder I haven't wrinkles and a little wisp of fuzzy gray hair!" she added, trying to smile. "Don't!" said Francis again, looking at her childish face, with its showers of loose curls, that was trying to be so brave. He dropped his eyes again to the clenched hands that were tensed, one on either knee. "I was foolish and young, too, then," he added. "I think I'm older, too." "Yes . . . it was a mistake," she said in a far-off voice. "I wish it hadn't been," he said. "Why, I was thinking that, too!" she said. "Isn't it a pity that we weren't as old then as we are now! Responsible, I mean, and wanting as much to do right things. That was one thing about it all. I want to do right more than anything else these days; and I think you do, too. And it wasn't in style then--do you remember our talking it over up here once, when we were having a little friendly spat? But I suppose----" "I suppose you would never have married me if you'd been so old and wise," he said. She considered. "But neither would you have," she objected. Francis looked up at her suddenly, flashingly. "You know better," he burst out. "You know I'd marry you over again if I were forty years old, and as wise as Solomon. The kind of love I had for you isn't the kind that gets changed." Marjorie lay for a minute silently. Then she looked at him incredulously. "But you said----" she began very softly. "I said things that I ought to be horsewhipped for. I loved you so much that I was jealous. I do think I've learned a little better. Why, if you wanted to talk to some other man now, even if I knew you loved him madly, if it would make you happier I think I'd get him for you. . . . No. No, I don't believe I could. I want you too much myself. But--I've learned a better kind of love, at least, than the kind that only wants to make you miserable. I _did_ get Pennington for you when you were so ill, and wanted him instead of me. Count that to me for righteousness, Marge, when you think about me back there in the city." "Then--you mean--that you love me just as much as ever?" She lay there, wide-eyed, flushed and unbelieving. "As much? A thousand times more--you know it. Good heavens, how could any one live in the house with you and not care more and more for you all the time?" "But, then, why did you----"