had begun
their married life in this locality before it had become a definite
district. Twelve years ago the neighbourhood had shown no signs of
mushrooming into its present opulence. Twelve years ago Raymond,
twenty-eight, and Cora, twenty-four, had taken a six-room flat at Racine
and Sunnyside. Six rooms. Modern. Light. Rental, $28.50 per month.

"But I guess I can manage it, all right," Raymond had said. "That isn't
so terrible--for six rooms."

Cora's full under lip had drawn itself into a surprisingly thin straight
line. Later, Raymond came to recognize the meaning of that labial
warning. "We don't need all those rooms. It's just that much more work."

"I don't want you doing your own work. Not unless you want to. At first,
maybe, it'd be sort of fun for you. But after a while you'll want a girl
to help. That'll take the maid's room off the kitchen."

"Well, supposing? That leaves an extra room, anyway."

A look came into Raymond's face. "Maybe we'll need that, too--later.
Later on." He actually could have been said to blush, then, like a boy.
There was much of the boy in Raymond at twenty-eight.

Cora did not blush.

Raymond had married Cora because he loved her; and because she was what
is known as a "home girl." From the first, business girls--those alert,
pert, confident little sparrows of office and shop and the street at
lunch hour--rather terrified him. They gave you as good as you sent.
They were always ready with their own nickel for carfare. You never knew
whether they were laughing at you or not. There was a little girl named
Calhoun in the binoculars (Raymond's first Chicago job was with the
Erwin H. Nagel Optical Company on Wabash). The Calhoun girl was smart.
She wore those plain white waists. Tailored, Raymond thought they called
them. They made her skin look fresh and clear and sort of downy-blooming
like the peaches that grew in his own Michigan state back home. Or
perhaps only girls with clear fresh skins could wear those plain white
waist things. Raymond had heard that girls thought and schemed about
things that were becoming to them, and then stuck to those things. He
wondered how the Calhoun girl might look in a fluffy waist. But she
never wore one down to work. When business was dull in the motor and
sun-glasses (which was where he held forth) Raymond would stroll over to
Laura Calhoun's counter and talk. He would talk about the Invention. He
had no one else to talk to about it. No one