But with the inevitable misunderstandings of the first months of marriage had come a desire to be appreciated once again at his face value. Grace had taken him, not for what he was, but for what he seemed to be. With Christine the veil was rent. She knew him now--all his small indolences, his affectations, his weaknesses. Later on, like other women since the world began, she would learn to dissemble, to affect to believe him what he was not. Grace had learned this lesson long ago. It was the ABC of her knowledge. And so, back to Grace six weeks after his wedding day came Palmer Howe, not with a suggestion to renew the old relationship, but for comradeship. Christine sulked--he wanted good cheer; Christine was intolerant--he wanted tolerance; she disapproved of him and showed her disapproval--he wanted approval. He wanted life to be comfortable and cheerful, without recriminations, a little work and much play, a drink when one was thirsty. Distorted though it was, and founded on a wrong basis, perhaps, deep in his heart Palmer's only longing was for happiness; but this happiness must be of an active sort--not content, which is passive, but enjoyment. “Come on out,” he said. “I've got a car now. No taxi working its head off for us. Just a little run over the country roads, eh?” It was the afternoon of the day before Christine's night visit to Sidney. The office had been closed, owing to a death, and Palmer was in possession of a holiday. “Come on,” he coaxed. “We'll go out to the Climbing Rose and have supper.” “I don't want to go.” “That's not true, Grace, and you know it.” “You and I are through.” “It's your doing, not mine. The roads are frozen hard; an hour's run into the country will bring your color back.” “Much you care about that. Go and ride with your wife,” said the girl, and flung away from him. The last few weeks had filled out her thin figure, but she still bore traces of her illness. Her short hair was curled over her head. She looked curiously boyish, almost sexless. Because she saw him wince when she mentioned Christine, her ill temper increased. She showed her teeth. “You get out of here,” she said suddenly. “I didn't ask you to come back. I don't want you.” “Good Heavens, Grace! You always knew I would have to marry some day.” “I was sick; I nearly died. I didn't hear any reports of you hanging around the hospital to learn how I was getting along.” He laughed rather sheepishly. “I had to be careful. You know that as well as I do. I know half the staff there. Besides, one of--” He hesitated over his wife's name. “A girl I know very well was in the training-school. There would have been the devil to pay if I'd as much as called up.” “You never told me you were going to get married.” Cornered, he slipped an arm around her. But she shook him off. “I meant to tell you, honey; but you got sick. Anyhow, I--I hated to tell you, honey.”