Julian sat down and took me indulgently on his knee. Some women in marriage have their pride gratified by a good match, by all the pomps of life, or by unlimited allowances of spending money. But my portion is to be loved and cherished and fondled like an infant. I like it very much. Some part of me lingers in eternal babyhood. In the glass I frequently see a juvenile face with dimples around the mouth, that disowns its thirty years. “You think,” said Julian, after kissing me in a way which would scandalize some of the girls who made the best matches, “that we can’t raise the money.” Such a thought would have been justified by the fact that we seldom could raise the money. “But we can. And what’s the use of waiting around till we are old? I’m in my thirties. And if I ever do anything now’s the time to do it. A man can’t make a success of painting here in the west.” I looked all around Julian’s studio. He had done many portraits, and hated them. They made our living. But he believed he was wasting time. I always loved to be in the studio, and sometimes sat there a whole afternoon, with bits of sewing, behind a screen. A great many people took the elevator to explore Julian’s work place. He had reputation in his native city. And when they stumbled around the screen on me, they might have taken me for a model. But most of the explorers were country people, piloted by their town friends to see the sights. I only looked odd to them. I know I looked odd, because Julian had me dress in loose gowns and broad hats. Cheese cloth is only four cents a yard and very wide, and with borders of velvet or lace it made sumptuous cool toilets. I was slim; and a dull blue gown, belted just under my arms and puffed at the shoulders, with an aureole of dull blue hat over it, made me look nice in Julian’s eyes or I never should have had the courage to face the street. When a person is slim and lithe, however, her daring clothes have not the aggressive grossness of a fat woman’s daring clothes. Looking around the painting-room, I could not think Julian a failure. He had made it so pretty with tiles and pottery and draping stuff, and flowers painted in dull red or bronze vases, or in masses wasting their petals, and landscapes, some blurred so you had to squint your eyes to get the outlines. Looking at himself I always considered him a great success. His mouth and chin were so refined. He was muscular and alert in his carriage for a man of his profession, and his ideas were far grander than mine. “So I’m going to sell the little farm,” said Julian. “Oh!” I exclaimed, “that’s all the property we’ve got.” “Why, I thought you were perfectly willing. What does it amount to, anyhow? Fifteen acres and a scrubby house and barn.” “What will old Lena do?”