the library window, her chin in her hand, drearily
watching the sleet as it beat against the panes, and the tops of the
Park trees lashing in the wind. Below, in the street, the trolleys
passed in their never-ending procession, the limousines and cabs whizzed
forlornly by, and the few pedestrians pushed dripping umbrellas against
the gale. A wet, depressing afternoon, as hopeless as her thoughts, and
growing darker and more miserable hourly.

Stephen, standing by the fire, kicked the logs together and sent a
shower of sparks flying.

"Oh, say something, Caro, do!" he snapped testily. "Don't sit there
glowering; you give me the horrors."

She roused from her reverie, turned, and tried to smile.

"What shall I say?" she asked.

"I don't know. But say something, for heaven's sake! Talk about the
weather, if you can't think of anything more original."

"The weather isn't a very bright subject just now."

"I didn't say it was; but it's _a_ subject. I hope to goodness it
doesn't prevent Sylvester's keeping his appointment. He's late, as it
is."

"Is he?" wearily. "I hadn't noticed."

"Of course you hadn't. You don't notice anything. It doesn't help
matters to pull a long face and go moping around wiping your eyes.
You've got to use philosophy in times like this. It's just as hard for
me as it is for you; and I try to make the best of it, don't I?"

She might have reminded him that his philosophy was a very recent
acquisition. When the news of their poverty first came he was the one
who raved and sobbed and refused to contemplate anything less direful
than slow starvation or quick suicide. She had soothed and comforted
then. Since the previous evening, when he had gone out, in spite of her
protestations, and left her alone, his manner had changed. He was still
nervous and irritable, but no longer threatened self-destruction, and
seemed, for some unexplained reason, more hopeful and less desperate.
Sylvester had 'phoned, saying that he would call at the apartment at
two, and since Stephen had received the message he had been in a state
of suppressed excitement, scarcely keeping still for five minutes at a
time.

"It is just as hard for me as it is for you, isn't it?" he repeated.

"Yes, Steve, I suppose it is."

"You suppose? Don't you know? Oh, do quit thinking about Mal Dunn and
pay attention to me."

She did not answer. He regarded her with disgust.

"You are thinking of Mal, of course," he declared. "Wha