By the time the apartment was reached he had pulled himself together a little. With an effort he achieved a smile and went in. Shirley was waiting for him. "Any word?" He shook his head. He could not tell her just then, but he could not trust his voice with a kindly lie. "Oh, I thought surely we'd hear to-day-- You've brought something for me?" "It isn't much." He gave her the little box--it was rain-soaked now--and saw her face fall as she peeped within. Always he had brought her some pretty extravagance on their anniversary. But she kissed him and sent him to his room to put on dry clothes. They sat down to dinner, a special dinner with things they both liked and could not always have. And for a while he tried to be as merry as the occasion demanded. But not for long. His tongue fumbled over his poor little jokes and his laughter was lifeless. Shirley saw. "David, look at me." His eyes wavered, fell, then rose doggedly to hers. "What's the matter? Something has happened. Do you mean it's--" "Yes, Shirley. Dick Holden won." For a moment she stared blankly at him, then burst into a storm of weeping. In an instant his own heartache was swallowed up in sorrow for her. He sprang to her side, catching her close and petting her, begging her "not to take it so," saying foolish brave things. The storm subsided as suddenly as it rose. With a sharp movement she pushed herself away from him and sat looking at him with eyes in which he would have said, if he could have trusted his senses just then, anger and--almost--hate were blazing. "Shirley," he pleaded, "don't take it so. Our plans _were_ good. It was only pull that beat us. Dick told me--" The eyes did not change. "It doesn't matter why, does it? They didn't take them--that's all. What difference does it make if things are good when nobody will buy them? And I had hoped--" "Dear, don't take it so," he repeated. "We must be brave. This is only a test--the hardest of all. If we're brave and keep hanging on--you remember what we used to say--" She laughed, not her old beautiful laugh, but a shrill outpouring of her bitter disappointment. "Oh, we said a lot of silly things. We were fools. I didn't know what it would be like." Anger--yes, and even hate--were unmistakable in that moment. She sat up sharply. "And, David, you've got to do something to change it. I'm tired of it all--sick and tired of scrimping and worrying and wearing made-over dresses and being--just shabby genteel. You've got to do something." Every word was a knife in his heart. But he could not be angry with her; he was thinking of her disappointment. "But, dear, I'm doing all I can. How can I--" "You can get a position somewhere and at least have a steady income that would--" "Why, Shirley, you don't mean--give up my profession? You _couldn't_ mean that!" "I mean just that. It would give us a steady income at least."