e mistakes. I've
cared too much for business. I admit that fully and freely. I let it
intrude on my home life; I let it hamper the expression of my love for
you. As for you, you adorable creature, you've been headstrong beyond
belief. You've been impulsive to the limit of that very impulsive
temperament of yours. You've been unreasonable to the verge of
distraction. But, thank heaven! you've been--as you'd call
it--intuitional, too. That redeems you from criticism--as it may redeem
me from ruin in my business. So, darling, isn't it fair, when I say that
I'm going to change, to say that I want you to change, too? To sum it
up, dear heart, we must begin all over again."

Nevertheless, Cicily, although she was a-quiver with delight over the
open revelation of her husband's changed feeling toward her and toward
himself, did not hesitate to combat his determination. She shook her
head slowly in negation of his proposal, and spoke with the energy of
profound conviction:

"It's too late, Charles. We can't go back."

"But, Cicily," Hamilton remonstrated, greatly hurt by her resistance to
his humble resolve, "you don't understand! I admit that I was
wrong--more than partly to blame, perhaps." That was as far as he could
go. The wife who loved him smiled secretly at the obvious effort with
which he acknowledged so much. It was enough to satisfy her in that
direction--more than enough! But there remained still the fact that she
was totally out of harmony with his scheme of turning backward to begin
their life together afresh, after a finer plan of conduct.

"There's no such thing as going backward in life, Charles," she
declared, intently. "We must go forward--only forward!"

"No," Hamilton answered, gravely. "That would never do. The old struggle
would come up again. You were right in your argument, Cicily, and I see
it now. I recognize the existence of that modern triangle, as you
described it. One must choose, inevitably. It's either you or business.
I chose once, and I went wrong. Now, let me choose again, dear. Oh, you
must believe me, sweetheart. You are the dearer--infinitely the dearer
to me! It is you I love--only you!" There was genuine passion in the
man's voice. It rang heavenly harmonies in the soul of the wife. For the
moment, she was half-inclined to throw away the troubles begotten of
ambition, the strivings engendered by ideals, to rest content with the
happiness of love's transports. She fought the temptatio