“_I_ don’t care what you do with it. I thought it was a pretty good sort, myself.” “It was a _lovely_ rug,” said Mrs. Thatcher earnestly, “only it wasn’t in the right place. It was just what Mrs. Brereton wanted—for her brother-in-law. But it seemed so mean of me to sell it—when it was your present—and I’ve been so unhappy lately—Nevin—you _can’t think_!” Her eyes brimmed as she gazed at him; the red cherries in her hat shook against the dark hair that framed her soft, pale cheeks. “Sit down,” said Mr. Thatcher briefly, pushing a wooden armed office chair towards her. He went away momentarily, and then came back. “Have you had your lunch?” “No,” replied Mrs. Thatcher faintly. “Well, neither have I. I think you’d be better for something to eat. You wait five minutes and I’ll be ready to go out with you. We’ll have a little lunch together.” She raised her drooping head to give him the wistfully pleased, half-encouraged look of one dependent on a benign higher power. Her heart was swelling with the joy of triumph. When he returned to her with his overcoat, he had been brushed clear of the factory dust and looked trim and smiling, hat in hand. “It’s nearly two o’clock. I think I won’t come back here this afternoon; I’ve got through about all there is to do. It’s a dull day. I’m going to take you around to the Electrographic Club to lunch; they’ve got a new room for ladies. You’d like to see the pictures there. Come on—this way.” “Oh, how lovely!” said Mrs. Thatcher, with a deep, contented sigh. “How _good_ you are, Nevin! Do I look all right?” “Oh, you’ll do,” said her husband, with an affectionate squeeze of the arm next him. “See here! You mustn’t look at me in the street that way; people will think we’re engaged.” “Well, why not?” murmured Mrs. Thatcher. “I don’t care what anybody thinks—Darling!” * * * * * “Yes, my husband selected it,” said Mildred. The next door neighbour was standing in Mrs. Thatcher’s little drawing-room with her, and they were both looking down at a dark velvety rug with an Oriental blend of colours in it. “It was a present to me, but he wouldn’t _think_ of getting it alone—though he has such excellent taste. We made quite a little event of buying it yesterday.” “It is beautiful,” said the neighbour, with a regretful sigh. “How dry that rubber plant looks; it needs water. Why don’t you have it outdoors?” “Oh, I have it out all the time,” asseverated Mrs. Thatcher hastily. “At least, _nearly_ all the time. Lately I’ve forgotten to see about it. I’ve been so—so _busy_. Why, I do believe there’s a new green leaf coming out at the top!” “Rubber plants can stand a great deal,” said the neighbour philosophically, following Mrs. Thatcher, who was lugging the heavy pot out into the wooing breeze of the late afternoon. She was so touchingly happy that she felt as if she could have lifted mountains.