Still silence. Helen turned sharply and peered into her husband's face. "What's the matter?" she demanded suspiciously. "Why are you so glum?" Burke, instantly alert to the danger of having another scene such as had followed Gleason's first visit, desperately ran to cover. "Nothing, nothing!" He essayed a gay smile, and succeeded. "I'm stupid, that's all. Maybe I'm sleepy myself." "It can't be you're put out 'cause we came away so early! You suggested it yourself." Her eyes were still suspiciously bent upon him. "Not a bit of it! I wanted to come." She relaxed and took her gaze off his face. The unmistakable sincerity in his voice this last time had carried conviction. "Hm-m; I thought you did," she murmured contentedly again. "Still, I was kind of scared when you proposed it. I didn't suppose 'twas proper to eat and run. Mother always said so. Do you think he minded it--your father?" "Not a bit!" Burke, in his thankfulness to have escaped the threatened scene, was enabled to speak lightly, almost gayly. "Hm-m. Well, I'm glad. I wouldn't have wanted him to mind. I _tried_ to be 'specially nice to him, didn't I?" "You did, certainly." Burke's lips came together a little grimly; but Helen's eyes were turned away; and after a moment's pause she changed the subject--to her husband's infinite relief. CHAPTER IX A BOTTLE OF INK Burke Denby did not attempt to deceive himself after that Sunday dinner. His marriage had been a mistake, and he knew it. He was disappointed, ashamed, and angry. He told himself that he was heartbroken; that he still loved Helen dearly--only he did not like to be with her now. She made him nervous, and rubbed him the wrong way. Her mood never seemed to fit in with his. She had so many little ways-- Sometimes he told himself irritably that he believed that, if it were a big thing like a crime that Helen had committed, he could be heroic and forgiving, and glory in it. But forever to battle against a succession of never-ending irritations, always to encounter the friction of antagonistic aims and ideals--it was maddening. He was ashamed of himself, of course. He was ashamed of lots of things that he said and did. But he could not help an explosion now and then. He felt as if somewhere, within him, was an irresistible force driving him to it. And the pity of it! Was he not, indeed, to be pitied? What had he not given up? As if it were his fault that he was now so disillusioned! He had supposed that marriage with Helen would be a fresh joy every morning, a new delight every evening, an unbelievable glory of happiness--just being together. Now--he did not want to be together. He did not want to go home to fretfulness, fault-finding, slovenliness, and perpetual criticism. He wanted to go home to peace and harmony, big, quiet rooms, servants that knew their business, and--dad.