Helen managed to look languid and bored. "Lunch with that old pill, Atchinson? It doesn't appeal to me; but don't you think we might go away while you are finishing the book? It will take you weeks upon weeks, and that means I've got to stick around this poky hole, mooning around by myself, while you're locked in that old stable for endless hours. I'd like to go away, Kirklan." Kirklan patted his wife's hand. "I'd like to, Helen, but I'm used to things out here, and a change usually upsets my work very badly. I've got to dig in now for all I'm worth. Poky old hole? I thought you liked Greenacres." "I don't; I hate it. Oh, don't start harping about 'the scenery;' the scenery's all right for a change, but I'm fed up on it. Outside of gawking around the country, there's nothing to do but get up, eat, and then go to bed again. I don't know why we couldn't go down to--well, Atlantic City, while you're finishing the book." "Oh, tut!" Gilmore reproved mildly. "You've just got out on the wrong side of the bed this morning. It's quite impossible for us to go away. It won't be lonesome for you now that Joan is back. She's no end of good fun, Joan. Greatest little pal in the world. And that reminds me that I must ask her to help me straighten out the sixteenth chapter. There's a little something it lacks, and I can always depend on Joan to supply just the right touch." Helen laughed, but not pleasantly. "Yes," she said with an edge of sarcasm, "that stepsister of yours and I would make great pals--not! It's all that she can do to be civil. Sometimes I feel that she actually hates me!" "That's nonsense, Helen. Joan hate you? How ridiculous! Joan never hated any one in her life." "It's not ridiculous!" flared Helen; she was one of those persons who always flared when contradicted. She could not brook opposition, even verbal opposition. "I tell you, Miss Sheridan dislikes me intensely." "She might be a little hurt--temporarily," admitted Gilmore. "I'm sorry we didn't leave the room alone until she got back. Perhaps it doesn't seem quite right, moving her out while she was away." "Every one in the house looks upon me as--as an interloper," Helen rushed on. "Even the servants--I can feel their antagonism toward me. I don't know why I should be asked to--to tolerate such treatment." "Try and look at things more calmly," soothed Gilmore. "Naturally, everything seems strange to you at first. Both my stepmother and Joan are wonderful, Helen--real mother and sister to me. You'll learn to love them very much; please, Helen, for my sake, you'll try." "And you expect to let them make their home with us permanently?" she demanded bitterly. Kirklan Gilmore looked uncomfortable, unhappy; this was the first rift in the lute. He was discovering that his wife, after all, was not quite the perfect woman. It is a painful realization for a new husband.