Selma flushed. "On the contrary, I have reason to believe that Benham has made wonderful progress in the last five years. My friends there write that there are many new streets and beautiful buildings, and that the spirit of the place is enthusiastic and liberal, not luxurious and sneering. You never appreciated Benham at its true worth, Wilbur." "Perhaps not. But we chose New York." "Then you insist on remaining here?" "I see no reason for sacrificing the fruits of the past five years--for pulling myself up by the roots and making a fresh start. From a professional point of view, I think it would be madness." "Not even to save our happiness?" Selma's eyes swam and her lips trembled as she spoke. She felt very miserable, and she yearned with the desire that her husband would clasp her in his arms in a vast embrace, and tell her that she was right and that he would go. She felt that if he did, the horror of the past would be wiped out and loving harmony be restored. Wilbur's lips trembled, too. He gazed at her for a moment without speaking, in conflict with himself; then passing his hand across his forehead, as though he would sweep away a misty spell from his eyes, said, "Be sensible, Selma. If we could be happy in Benham, we should be happy here." "Then you refuse?" "For the present, yes." "And I must remain here to be insulted--and a nobody." "For God's sake, Selma, let us not renew that discussion. What you ask is impossible at present, but I shall remember that it is your wish, and when I begin my work at Benham the circumstances and surroundings may be such that I shall feel willing to move." Selma turned to the table and took up a book, dissatisfied, yet buoyed by a new hope. She did not observe the tired lines on her husband's face--the weariness of a soul disappointed in its most precious aspirations.