She was smiling as she went down the stairs—until she saw Robert. He came to the foot of the stairs, watching her as she came toward him. She had to meet his eyes, she had to smile again, but it was hard beyond all measure. She had never seen that look on his face before. He had always been utterly loyal to her, had always loved her, but it had been after the fashion of a boy. The look she saw on his face now was not a boy’s; it was the profound compassion and tenderness of a man. It came to her, with a stab of pain, that she had cruelly underrated her son. She had thought of him as a dear and rather clumsy boy, and he was so much more than that—so much more! Her own affair seemed more fantastic than ever now. Here was Robert, making his valiant battle in the world for the life and safety of his wife and child. Here was Molly, busy with the vital needs of life, with food and clothes, with the care of their child; and she herself was going to work in the Needlecraft Shop. She had to tell them, of course. When they were all seated at the table, she did so, in the most casual, matter-of-fact way. It was even worse than she had feared. Robert grew very white. “You mean—a job?” he asked. “It’s charitable work, really,” Mrs. Champney explained. “The foreign-born women bring their needlework to the shop, and we sell it on commission for them. The idea is to encourage their home industries, and—” “But you’re going to get paid for it?” asked Robert. “Why, yes!” said Mrs. Champney brightly. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy the work, too. I’ve always—” “You mean you’re going off to work every morning in this shop?” said Robert. “Do you mind telling me why?” “Because I consider it very useful and interesting work, Robert,” replied Mrs. Champney, with dignity. There was a long silence. “All right!” said Robert briefly. She knew how terribly she had hurt him. He had wanted to do so much for her, to take her into his home and protect her and care for her, and she would not let him. She had turned away with a smile from all that he had to offer. She would take nothing. “I’ve always led—such an active life,” she said, in a very unsteady voice. “I should think you could understand, Robert—” “I do!” he said grimly. “You don’t!” she cried. “You don’t! You—” She could not go on. She bent her head and pretended to be cutting up something on her plate, but she could not see clearly. He never would understand that she was doing this only for love of him, only so that she might not be here in his home as the sinister third person who saw everything and— She started at the touch of Molly’s hand on her arm. “If that’s your way to be happy, darling,” said Robert’s wife, and Mrs. Champney saw tears in her honest eyes. V