es full
of the austere love that springs up between men who have tugged at the
same oar together and are yoked by custom and use and the intimacies of
toil. This is a good love, and, since it allows, and even encourages,
strife, recrimination, and brutal sincerity, does not die, but grows,
and is proof against any absence and evil conduct.

Dick was silent after he handed Torpenhow the filled pipe of council. He
thought of Maisie and her possible needs. It was a new thing to think of
anybody but Torpenhow, who could think for himself. Here at last was an
outlet for that cash balance. He could adorn Maisie barbarically with
jewelry,--a thick gold necklace round that little neck, bracelets
upon the rounded arms, and rings of price upon her hands,--the cool,
temperate, ringless hands that he had taken between his own. It was an
absurd thought, for Maisie would not even allow him to put one ring on
one finger, and she would laugh at golden trappings. It would be better
to sit with her quietly in the dusk, his arm around her neck and her
face on his shoulder, as befitted husband and wife. Torpenhow's boots
creaked that night, and his strong voice jarred. Dick's brows contracted
and he murmured an evil word because he had taken all his success as a
right and part payment for past discomfort, and now he was checked in
his stride by a woman who admitted all the success and did not instantly
care for him.

'I say, old man,' said Torpenhow, who had made one or two vain attempts
at conversation, 'I haven't put your back up by anything I've said
lately, have I?'

'You! No. How could you?'

'Liver out of order?'

'The truly healthy man doesn't know he has a liver. I'm only a bit
worried about things in general. I suppose it's my soul.'

'The truly healthy man doesn't know he has a soul. What business have
you with luxuries of that kind?'

'It came of itself. Who's the man that says that we're all islands
shouting lies to each other across seas of misunderstanding?'

'He's right, whoever he is,--except about the misunderstanding. I don't
think we could misunderstand each other.'

The blue smoke curled back from the ceiling in clouds. Then Torpenhow,
insinuatingly--'Dick, is it a woman?'

'Be hanged if it's anything remotely resembling a woman; and if you
begin to talk like that, I'll hire a red-brick studio with white paint
trimmings, and begonias and petunias and blue Hungarias to play among
three-and-sixpenny pot-palms