she
detested. And here he was, being confirmed in his madness by the two
acceptances he took such pride in telling her about. A little longer and
he would have surrendered and gone to work. Now he would continue on in
this horrible house, writing and starving for a few more months.

"What is that smell?" she asked suddenly.

"Some of Maria's washing smells, I imagine," was the answer. "I am
growing quite accustomed to them."

"No, no; not that. It is something else. A stale, sickish smell."

Martin sampled the air before replying.

"I can't smell anything else, except stale tobacco smoke," he announced.

"That's it. It is terrible. Why do you smoke so much, Martin?"

"I don't know, except that I smoke more than usual when I am lonely. And
then, too, it's such a long-standing habit. I learned when I was only a
youngster."

"It is not a nice habit, you know," she reproved. "It smells to heaven."

"That's the fault of the tobacco. I can afford only the cheapest. But
wait until I get that forty-dollar check. I'll use a brand that is not
offensive even to the angels. But that wasn't so bad, was it, two
acceptances in three days? That forty-five dollars will pay about all my
debts."

"For two years' work?" she queried.

"No, for less than a week's work. Please pass me that book over on the
far corner of the table, the account book with the gray cover." He
opened it and began turning over the pages rapidly. "Yes, I was right.
Four days for 'The Ring of Bells,' two days for 'The Whirlpool.' That's
forty-five dollars for a week's work, one hundred and eighty dollars a
month. That beats any salary I can command. And, besides, I'm just
beginning. A thousand dollars a month is not too much to buy for you all
I want you to have. A salary of five hundred a month would be too small.
That forty-five dollars is just a starter. Wait till I get my stride.
Then watch my smoke."

Ruth misunderstood his slang, and reverted to cigarettes.

"You smoke more than enough as it is, and the brand of tobacco will make
no difference. It is the smoking itself that is not nice, no matter what
the brand may be. You are a chimney, a living volcano, a perambulating
smoke-stack, and you are a perfect disgrace, Martin dear, you know you
are."

She leaned toward him, entreaty in her eyes, and as he looked at her
delicate face and into her pure, limpid eyes, as of old he was struck
with his own unworthiness.

"I w