That seemed to me a lot to pay--and, indeed, it was. But she did not inherit Weeping Willie’s tightness; and she had never had money to spend or any training in either making or spending money. That is to say, she was precisely as ignorant of the main business of life as is the rest of American womanhood under our ridiculous system of education. So, twenty-five dollars a month rent meant nothing to her. “We can’t do anything to-night,” said she. “But I’ve got my days free, and I’ll look at different places, and when I find several to choose from we can come in the evening or on Sunday and decide.” This suited me exactly. We dismissed the matter, hunted out a shady nook, and sat down to enjoy ourselves after the manner of young lovers on a fine night. Never before had she given herself freely to love. I know now it was because never before had she loved me. I was deliriously happy that night, and I am sure she was too. She no less than I had the ardent temperament that goes with the ambitious nature; and now that she was idealizing me into the man who could lead her to the fairy lands she dreamed of, she gave me her whole heart. It was the beginning of what was beyond question the happiest period of both our lives. I have a dim old photograph of us two taken about that time. At a glance you see it is the picture of two young people of the working class--two green, unformed creatures, badly dressed and gawkily self-conscious. But there is a look in her face--and in mine-- To be quite honest, I’m glad I don’t look like that now. I wouldn’t go back if I could. Nevertheless-- How we loved each other!--and how happy we were! I feel that I weary you, gentle reader. There is in my sentiment too much about wages and flat rents and the smells that come from people who work hard and live in poor places and eat badly cooked strong food. But that is not my fault. It is life. And if you believe that your and your romancers’ tawdry imaginings are better than life--well, you may not be so wise or so exalted as you fancy. The upshot of our inspecting places to live and haggling over prices was that we took a flat in the best quarter of Passaic--the top and in those elevatorless days the cheapest flat in the house. We were to pay forty dollars a month--a stiff rent that caused excitement in our neighborhood and set my mother and her father to denouncing us as a pair of fools bent upon ruin. I thought so, myself. But I could have denied Edna nothing at that time, and I made up my mind that by working harder than ever at the railway office I would compel another raise. When I told my mother about this secret resolve of mine, she said: “If you do get more money, Godfrey, don’t tell Edna. She’s a fool. She’ll keep your nose to the grindstone all your life if you ain’t careful. It takes a better money-maker than you’re likely to be to hold up against that kind of a woman.” “Oh, she’s like all girls,” said I.