The question could not be dropped for good and all, and it came up again at dinner, after Jennie had done her best to collect her thoughts and quiet her nerves. They could not talk very freely because of Vesta and Jeannette, but she managed to get in a word or two. “I could take a little cottage somewhere,” she suggested softly, hoping to find him in a modified mood. “I would not want to stay here. I would not know what to do with a big house like this alone.” “I wish you wouldn’t discuss this business any longer, Jennie,” he persisted. “I’m in no mood for it. I don’t know that I’m going to do anything of the sort. I don’t know what I’m going to do.” He was so sour and obstinate, because of O’Brien, that she finally gave it up. Vesta was astonished to see her stepfather, usually so courteous, in so grim a mood. Jennie felt a curious sense that she might hold him if she would, for he was doubting; but she knew also that she should not wish. It was not fair to him. It was not fair to herself, or kind, or decent. “Oh yes, Lester, you must,” she pleaded, at a later time. “I won’t talk about it any more, but you must. I won’t let you do anything else.” There were hours when it came up afterward—every day, in fact—in their boudoir, in the library, in the dining-room, at breakfast, but not always in words. Jennie was worried. She was looking the worry she felt. She was sure that he should be made to act. Since he was showing more kindly consideration for her, she was all the more certain that he should act soon. Just how to go about it she did not know, but she looked at him longingly, trying to help him make up his mind. She would be happy, she assured herself—she would be happy thinking that he was happy once she was away from him. He was a good man, most delightful in everything, perhaps, save his gift of love. He really did not love her—could not perhaps, after all that had happened, even though she loved him most earnestly. But his family had been most brutal in their opposition, and this had affected his attitude. She could understand that, too. She could see now how his big, strong brain might be working in a circle. He was too decent to be absolutely brutal about this thing and leave her, too really considerate to look sharply after his own interests as he should, or hers—but he ought to. “You must decide, Lester,” she kept saying to him, from time to time. “You must let me go. What difference does it make? I will be all right. Maybe, when this thing is all over you might want to come back to me. If you do, I will be there.” “I’m not ready to come to a decision,” was his invariable reply. “I don’t know that I want to leave you. This money is important, of course, but money isn’t everything. I can live on ten thousand a year if necessary. I’ve done it in the past.”