"I am sorry that you did not marry a matter-of-fact one. She would have suited you much better than I do." "You have said the same thing before." He had become suddenly grave and cold. "Doesn't it strike you that these regrets are worse than useless? As we have got to live with each other, we had better cultivate the art of nicking agreeable speeches." "With all my heart," I answered, haughtily. "Only I hope you will see that the agreeable speeches can't be all on one side. If you will take your share of making them, I will take mine." "Very well. I will do my best to be on my guard. It's a mistake, I find, to speak out candidly to one's wife. Restraint and formal courtesy shall be the rules of my home-life for the future; only, you know, my home will be wofully unlike a home!" "Oh, Ronald, what has come to us?" The question broke suddenly and passionately from my lips. "I never please you now. If I go out with you, nothing goes well; if I stay at home, you find fault with me. Am I to be blamed because 'my heart and my flesh faileth?' Is it likely that I can be gay and smiling when we are getting poorer every day? I am tired—yes, very tired—and I think I am growing too weak to keep up the struggle." There was a silence. I was crying now, not noisily, but very bitterly, and I had crept away from the table to the sofa. Presently—after a pause—he rose, and came across the room to my side. "Louie," he said, "it will never do to go on like this? You are very tired, poor child; I see that plainly enough. But can't you try to believe in a better future, dear? Have little patience, and my investments are sure to turn out well." "Investments?" I repeated, suddenly raising my tearful face. "We have no money to invest, Ronald." "Greystock has lent me some." He made the admission with some reluctance. "So you see, Louie, he has proved himself to be more unselfish than you thought. Of course he knows that it is perfectly safe—I never do anything without his advice—but some men never will part with money, even for a month or two. Greystock is really a friend." Was he? I was as far as ever from believing in his friendship. "I will try to be brighter, Ronald," I said, putting my hand into his. "It is hard on you, I daresay, to see me so changed and sorrowful. I have spoken foolishly this evening, but—I was overwrought and worn." This time it was a very quiet reconciliation; there were no passionate embraces, no fond murmurs. He kissed me tenderly, remarked that the fresh air would do us both a world of good, and took me out for a walk.