sed and had accepted, but
later had refused because of certain dictatorship exercised by the
Board, which he felt infringed on his province of a suitable selection
of subjects. He was silent for a moment. Again Mary had irrelevantly
and abruptly changed the subject of conversation. Where was the
connection between bees and lectures? "I really wish you would, dear,"
urged Mary.

"You still wish it after the affront the Board has given me?"

"I know, but what do they know about art? I would give the lectures if
it was only to be able--incidentally--to teach them something. Be a
little conciliatory, dear."

"I will make no concessions. If I give the lectures, I must be allowed
to select my courses. It is my province."

"Did you see Elder Craigmile about it?"

"I did."

"And what did he say?"

"He seemed to think the Board was right."

"I knew he would. You remember I asked you not to go to him about it,
and that was why."

"Why did you think so? He assumes to be my friend."

"Because people who don't know anything about art always are satisfied
with their own opinions. They don't know anything to upset them. He
knows more than some of them, but how much is that? Enough to know
that he owns some fine paintings; but you taught him their value, now,
didn't you?" Bertrand smiled, but said nothing, and his wife
continued. "Prepare the lectures, dear, for my sake. I love to know
that you are doing such work."

"I can't. The action of the Board is an insult to my intelligence.
What are you smiling about?"

"About you, dear."

"Mary, why, Mary! I--"

But Mary only smiled the more. "You love my irrelevance and
inconsistency, you say,--"

"I love any weakness that is yours, Mary. What are you keeping back
from me?"

"The weakness that is mine, dear." Again Mary laughed outright. "It
would be useless to tell you--or to try to explain. I love you, isn't
that enough?"

Bertrand thought it ought to be, but was not sure, and said so. Then
Mary laughed again, and he kissed her, shaking his head dubiously, and
took up his violin for solace. Thus an hour passed; then Betty set the
table for supper, and the long evening followed like many another
evening, filled with the companionship only comfortably married
people know, while Bertrand read from the poets.

Since, with a man's helplessness in such matters, he could not do
the family mending, or knit for the soldiers, or remodel old garments
into new, it behooved h