Two years after Helen’s marriage Mrs. Adams had passed away with no to-do about going at all. She was ill three days, very quietly and comfortably unconscious. Then she had gone to join that highly respectable class of saints in paradise to which no doubt her carpenter husband already belonged. Helen inherited her mother’s estate, which consisted of a few thousand dollars’ worth of securities in her safety box at the bank, the cottage on Wiggs Street and the contents of this cottage. The cottage was promptly sold and, together with the sale of the securities, furnished George with the money for his first successful speculation. But Helen would not part with the furniture. She had it brought to her own house. When she had distributed it in the rooms, the hall, all available spaces were filled with it. Her father’s portrait, done in crayon, hung above the parlor mantel. Her mother’s portrait, also a crayon, hung on the opposite wall. For years to come these two Adams parents were to stare at each other in a grim silence, as much as to say, “There will be a reckoning in this house some day!” which was due, of course, to the crudely veracious expression the amateur artist always gets with a crayon pencil. For at that time there was nothing but love and happiness and hope in this house. George was really planning then to build a mansion where this house stood. For a while they amused themselves drawing plans for this mansion. Then George became more and more absorbed in his business. He had less time for fanciful conversation with Helen. In any case the subject of the new house was dropped. It had not been mentioned for years. I suppose if there had been children the new house would have been built. But nothing had “happened.” Helen kept a cat, a canary bird and two servants. The cat was a sort of serial cat, exchanged once in so often for a kitten. The bird was the same one. She did not really care for cats, nor much for canaries, but they served the purpose of furnishing some sort of sound and motion in this silent house. She did not want the servants, either. She preferred to do her own work. She would have made an excellent wife for a poor man. She was a marvelously good one to George, who was rapidly becoming a rich man. She might have been a wonderful caretaker of a great man; she had exactly the right spirit of service and self-effacement. She developed a serene silence which was restful, never irritating. But George was not and never would be a great man. He needed a brilliant woman, and Helen was only a beautiful woman. He needed a charming hostess for his home, with social gifts. And Helen was only an excellent housekeeper. He knew that this house was atrociously furnished, but he did not know how it should be furnished. You may be highly appreciative of music without being a musician. He felt the need of fine, quiet things and neutral tones in his home, but he had neither the time nor the ability to achieve these effects.