Then he mentally apologized to his wife for even this mild criticism, and dreamed that, through some complication, he had to insure the cook and the janitor and the grocer’s boy before he could take out a policy on his own life, and that, when he had attended to the rest, he had no money left for his own premiums, so he made all the other policies in favor of his wife and hoped to thunder that the cook and the janitor and the grocer’s boy would die a long time before he did. However, she was still of the same mind the next day, so they went to see Murray. “Of course,” she said, as they were on the way, “if this thing wrecks our happiness by showing that the grave is yawning for either of us, it will be all your fault.” That made him feel nice and comfortable—so nice and comfortable that he heartily wished he never had mentioned life insurance. Still, he cheered up a little when Murray took charge of matters in a masterly, confident way. “I understand, Mrs. Beckford,” said Murray, “that both you and your husband wish to have your lives insured.” “Yes,” she replied, “and for some reason he has selfishly wanted to put all the insurance we can afford on his own life.” “So he has told me.” “What right had he to discuss family matters with you?” she demanded with asperity. Thus Murray was jarred out of his air of easy confidence the first thing. “Why—why, he didn’t exactly tell me,” he explained, “but my experience enabled me to surmise as much. Most men are like that.” “I never thought Harry would be,” she said, looking at him reproachfully. “But it’s all right now,” she added. “Yes, it’s all right now,” repeated Murray. He had intended to argue first the advisability of accepting her husband’s plan, but he deemed it unwise. He had suddenly lost faith in his powers of persuasion, so he resorted to guile. “Of course, you understand that life insurance is hedged about by many annoying restrictions,” he went on. “I didn’t know it,” she returned. “Oh, yes,” he said glibly, with a wink at Beckford. “Do you use gasoline at all?” “Why, I have used it occasionally to take a spot out of a gown,” she admitted. “Barred!” asserted Murray. “I can’t do even the least little mite of cleaning with gasoline!” she exclaimed in dismay. “None at all! It’s dangerous! Might just as well fool with nitroglycerin. People who handle it at all become careless.” There were indications of a rising temper. That a mean old insurance company should have the audacity to tell her what she could or could not do was an outrage! “And you can’t use street-cars,” added Murray. “Can’t use street-cars!” she cried. “What will Harry do?” “Oh, that rule doesn’t apply to men,” returned Murray calmly, “for men don’t get off the cars backward and all that sort of thing. Street-cars are considered, in our business, a danger only for women.”