te."

"No, no more human volumes, Jerry, until we have ample means. Printing
and binding and bookshelves are so costly for human volumes. Besides,
one must be so careful what one writes in them."

"I suppose I have something to say about that," he said angrily.

"Certainly. I supposed I was expressing your conviction, too, Jerry,
that only the best that love can give, only the largest opportunity,
could excuse bringing children into the world."

Bobs looked from one to the other of them, trying to analyze Jerry's
anger.

"Jane's right. Most parents would have a hard time defending themselves,
if their children came to them with the question, 'Why did you do this
to me?'"

"You talk an awful lot of nonsense, you two," said Jerry, flinging out
of the room.

"What's the matter with him?" Bobs asked.

"He's bitterly opposed to my writing."

"He's jealous; I know him."

"He doesn't think it's that. I only just realized to-night that he was
hurt because I hadn't offered him the book. I was hurt because he didn't
ask for it," she added.

"Men are a trial!" Bobs said, and dismissed them for the more congenial
topic of the book. They talked it over for hours, and when Bobs left she
had a typed copy in her arm. She called a good-night to Jerry, who came
downstairs and tried to be agreeable. He insisted on walking home with
her. While he was gone, Jane pondered deeply, and came to a decision.
When he returned she was still in the studio. She had a pile of
manuscripts in her hands, and she came toward him.

"Jerry, would you--will you read it?" she asked him gently.

"Thanks. I was going to ask you if you had a copy," he replied with
effort.

She smiled a good-night and slipped off upstairs to bed. At three
o'clock she woke to see the light still shining in the studio. She went
to the balcony and looked down. Jerry sat, under the light, reading
absorbedly, with sheets of script scattered about him like a troubled
sea.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Jane lay awake until she heard Jerry tiptoe up to his room, in the early
morning. It gave her an excited sense of satisfaction that, however much
he opposed her confessed profession, the thing she had created held him
spellbound. The artist in him could not withstand good workmanship. Or
perhaps he found her ideas interesting. She could scarcely wait until
morning to hear his verdict--and at the same time she dreaded it. She
was tempted to go to his room now, and demand i