ted this," or "Una suggested that," or "We had an
awful row over the location of this thing, but Una was right." And
then as an afterthought, "But then, she almost always is."

He wanted to give her all the credit, you see, and I think she must
have deserved a great deal, but I saw in the newborn Jerry enough to
convince me of his strength, intelligence and force. All his
personality--and I had long known that he had one--had been poured
into this fine practical work which at every turn bore the impress of
a man's force, plus a woman's intelligence.

To the god from the machine (for as such, in spite of many ungodlike
illusions, I still continued to regard myself) it seemed to me that
all was going beautifully toward the consummation of my heart's
fondest desire. And it was not until the following evening, when Jerry
at last managed to find a chance to have a long talk with me, that I
learned the truth.

It was a hot night in June. We had climbed to the roof of the new
building for a breath of air, forsaking Jerry's small bedroom in the
temporary quarters of the club where we had both been perspiring
profusely. We sat upon the parapet smoking and talking of Jerry's
plans and, since Una and the plans seemed to be a part of each other,
of Una.

"I see her constantly, Roger," he said joyously. "We have regular
meetings three times a week, sometimes at the Mission--and sometimes
at the club, and when there isn't enough daytime--up in Washington
Square. She has a wonderful mind for detail--carries everything in her
head--figures, everything."

"And you're happy?" I asked.

"Need you ask?" he laughed. "I've never known what life was before.
It's great just to live and see things, good, useful things grow under
your very eyes, so personal when you've planned 'em yourself."

"And Una?"

"Oh, she's happy too. But then she's always happy, always was. It's
her nature. I sometimes think she works a little too hard for her
strength, but she never complains." He paused and looked down the side
street to where the East River gleamed palely in the dusk night. "You
know, Roger, I sometimes wish that she _would_ complain. She just goes
along, quietly planning--doing, without any fuss, accomplishing things
where I fume and fret and get angry. She puts me to shame. She's a
wonder--an angel, Roger." He smiled. "And yet she's human enough,
always poking fun at a fellow, you know. I'm no match for her; I never
was or will be." He g