e don't rebuild at once."

She suppressed a yawn, thinking, as she did so, how dull he always
looked when he talked of agriculture. It made him seem years older, and
she reflected with a shiver that listening to him probably gave her the
same look.

He went on, as she handed him his tea: "I'm sorry it should happen
just now. I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to give up your spring in
Paris." "Oh, no--no!" she broke out. A throng of half-subdued grievances
choked in her: she wanted to burst into sobs like a child.

"I know it's a disappointment. But our expenses have been unusually
heavy this year."

"It seems to me they always are. I don't see why we should give up Paris
because you've got to make repairs to a dam. Isn't Hubert ever going to
pay back that money?"

He looked at her with a mild surprise. "But surely you understood at the
time that it won't be possible till his wife inherits?"

"Till General Arlington dies, you mean? He doesn't look much older than
you!"

"You may remember that I showed you Hubert's note. He has paid the
interest quite regularly."

"That's kind of him!" She stood up, flaming with rebellion. "You can do
as you please; but I mean to go to Paris."

"My mother is not going. I didn't intend to open our apartment."

"I understand. But I shall open it--that's all!"

He had risen too, and she saw his face whiten. "I prefer that you
shouldn't go without me."

"Then I shall go and stay at the Nouveau Luxe with my American friends."

"That never!"

"Why not?"

"I consider it unsuitable."

"Your considering it so doesn't prove it."

They stood facing each other, quivering with an equal anger; then he
controlled himself and said in a more conciliatory tone: "You never seem
to see that there are necessities--"

"Oh, neither do you--that's the trouble. You can't keep me shut up here
all my life, and interfere with everything I want to do, just by saying
it's unsuitable."

"I've never interfered with your spending your money as you please."

It was her turn to stare, sincerely wondering. "Mercy, I should hope
not, when you've always grudged me every penny of yours!"

"You know it's not because I grudge it. I would gladly take you to Paris
if I had the money."

"You can always find the money to spend on this place. Why don't you
sell it if it's so fearfully expensive?"

"Sell it? Sell Saint Desert?"

The suggestion seemed to strike him as something monstrously, almost
fien