Henry didn't repeat this conversation to Bob Standish, because he thought it would sound too much like saying "Yah!" nor did he repeat it to his wife, because he thought it would sound too egotistical; but on the same day he collected another item of news which he unhesitatingly shared with her. He said to Anna: "I saw something downtown that'll amuse you. Cigar store with a sign in front: Trading Stamps, Premium Coupons, and Orpheum Theatre Stubs Bought and Sold. If _that_ isn't a footprint on the sands of time I'm going to get measured for glasses." She laughed a trifle recessively. "I'll be glad when it's all over, though. Won't you?" Inspecting her, he realized with a little thrill of self-accusation, that Anna had worn herself out; she hadn't had a day's freedom from housework, and she had worked twice as hard as he thought necessary. She was very tired, and she showed it; but he knew that when she wanted the year to be over, she wasn't thinking of herself, but of him. He paid her the compliment of accepting what she said, without tossing it back as though she had meant it for herself. "Well, I _told_ you I'd drag in the bearded lady and the wild man of Borneo, if I had to. What's the matter; don't you like the show business?" "Of course, we didn't exactly go into it for _fun_." "I seem to remember your calling it a lark, though." "I didn't know it was going to be quite as awful as this." "Awful?" "You know what I mean--you're worn out, and you look _dreadfully_--and I _didn't_ know we'd have to do so much--" She fumbled for the word. "What is it when a man stands outside, and tries to make people come in and look at the snake-charmer?" "Ballyhoo. Would you have wanted me to stay out of it, if you'd known?" She deliberated. "It's funny--but I don't think I would. In a way, it's been good for both of us. I'll just be glad when it's over.... What sort of house did you have?" Henry put on his best smile. "Not too good. Fair." "If we should fall down, after all we've done--oh, we _can't_! Henry, we just _can't_!" "I used to know a poem," he said, "that kept asking the question 'Where are the snows of yesteryear?' Well, if I could find out, and have 'em shovelled back in the street, we'd be in a good position. But as soon as the snow melted, so did the big crowds. I'll never look a crocus in the face again. They've croaked us out of a couple of hundred a week, gross." "If we _should_ fall down, do you know who I'd be sorry for? The managers of the other theatres. We'd just have been dogs in the manger. And every time I think about it, I don't feel nearly as smart as I did last January. Of course, I suppose it was _fair_ enough, but--"