he same slow plodding way in which she had
formerly made of herself a fair stenographer and a tolerable typewriter.
Mrs. Lowell had helped--and Ursula, too--and Norman not a little. But
Dorothy, her husband discovered, was one of those who thoroughly
assimilate what they take in--who make it over into part of themselves.
So, her manner of keeping house, of arranging the gardens, of bringing
up the baby, of dressing herself, was peculiarly her own. It was not by
any means the best imaginable way. It was even what many energetic,
systematic and highly competent persons would speak contemptuously of.
But it satisfied Norman--and that was all Dorothy had in mind.

If those who have had any considerable opportunity to observe married
life will forget what they have read in novels and will fix their minds
on what they have observed at first hand, they will recognize the Norman
marriage, with the husband and wife living together yet apart as not
peculiar but of a rather common type. Neither Fred nor Dorothy had any
especial reason on any given day to try to alter their relations; so the
law of inertia asserted itself and matters continued as they had begun.
It was, perhaps, a chance remark of Tetlow's that was the remote but
efficient cause of a change, as the single small stone slipping high up
on the mountain side results in a vast landslide into the valley miles
below. Tetlow said one day, in connection with some estate they were
settling:

"I've always pitied the only child. It must be miserably lonesome."

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he colored violently;
for, he remembered that the Normans had but one child and he knew the
probable reason for it. Norman seemed not to have heard or seen. Tetlow
hoped he hadn't, but, knowing the man, feared otherwise. And he was
right.

In the press of other matters Norman forgot Tetlow's remark--remembered
it again a few days later when he was taking the baby out for an airing
in the motor--forgot it again--finally, when he took a several days'
rest at home, remembered it and kept it in mind. He began to think of
Dorothy once more in a definite, personal way, began to observe her as
his wife, instead of as mere part of his establishment. An intellectual
person she certainly was not. She had a quaint individual way of
speaking and of acting. She had the marvelous changeable beauty that had
once caused him to take the bit in his teeth and run wild. But he would
no mor