"Tell me," he exclaimed, and the new fear almost choked him, "does any other man interest you--the least little bit?" She stared at him and then burst into the most natural laugh he had heard from her for months. "That is simply too funny to talk about." "But I am able to give you so little of my time. Working or tired out at night--letting you go out so much alone--but I haven't the heart to insist that you yawn over a book, while I am shut up here, or too fagged to talk even to you. Life is becoming a tragedy for business men--if they've got it in them to care for anything else." "Well, don't add to the tragedy by cultivating jealousy. I've told you that I am perfectly willing to give up Society and sit like Dora holding your pens--or filling your fountain pen--no, you dictate. What chance has a woman in a business man's life?" "None, alas, except to look beautiful and be happy. Are you that?--the last I mean, of course!" She nestled closer to him and laughed again. "More so than ever. To be frank you have completed my happiness by being jealous. I have wondered sometimes if it were a compliment--your being so sure of me." "That's my idea of love." "Well, it's mine, too. But if you want me to stay home--" "Oh, no! You are fond of society? Really, I mean? Why shouldn't you be?--a young thing--" "What else is there? Of course, I should enjoy it much more if you were always with me. Shall we never have that year in Europe together?" "God knows. Something is wrong with the world. It needs reorganizing--from the top down. It is inhuman, the way even rich men have to work--to remain rich! But sit down." He led her over to a chair before the window. The storm was decreasing in violence, the heavy curtain of rain was no longer tossed, but falling in straight intermittent lines, and the islands were coming to life. Even the high and heavy crest of Mount Tamalpais was dimly visible. "It is the last of the storms, I fancy. Spring is overdue," said Price, who, however, was covertly watching his wife's face. Her color had faded a little, her lids drooped over eyes that stared out at the still turbulent waters. "I love these San Francisco storms," she said abruptly. "I am so glad we have these few wild months. But Mrs. Thornton has worried and so have we. Her fete at San Mateo comes off on the fourteenth, the first entertainment she has given since her return, and it would be ghastly if it rained. It should be a wonderful sight--those grounds--everybody in fancy dress with little black velvet masks. Don't you think you can go?" "The fourteenth? I'll try to make it. Who are you to be?" "Beatrice d'Este--in a court gown of black tissue instead of velvet, with just a touch of pink--oh, but a wonderful creation! I designed it myself. We are not bothering too much about historical accuracy." "How would you like this for the touch of pink!" He took the immense ruby from his pocket and tossed it into her lap.