e
over on the Avenue somewhere, beside the Bar Kock place--and he runs
three or four cars. Just what your mother loves!"

Mary continued to regard her husband steadily, silently. One look at
the fixed expression of contempt on her face would have enlightened
him, but George was lighting his cigar now, and did not glance at her.

"I'll tell you another thing, Mary," said George, after a
match-scratching-and-puffing interlude, "I'll tell you another thing,
my dear. You're an angel, and you don't notice these things as I do,
but, by Jove, your mother was reaching the point where she pretty
nearly made trouble between us! Fact!" he pursued, with a serious nod.
"I get tired, you know, and nervous, and unreasonable--you must have
had it pretty hard sometimes this month between your mother and me! I
get hot--you know I don't mean anything! If you hadn't the disposition
of a saint, things would have come to a head long ago. Now this very
morning I talked to you like a regular kid. Mary, the minute I got back
to the office I was ashamed of myself. Why, ninety-nine women out of a
hundred would have raised the very deuce with me for that! But, by
Jove--" his voice dropped to a pause.

"By Jove," George went on, "you are an angel! Now tell me the honest
truth, old girl, didn't you resent what I said to-day, just for a
minute?"

"I certainly did," Mary responded promptly and quietly, but with an
uncomfortable sense of lessened wrath. "What you said was absolutely
unwarrantable and insulting!"

"I'll BET you did!" said George, giving her a glance that was a little
troubled, and a little wistful, too. "It was insulting, it was
unwarrantable. But, my Lord, Mary, you know how I love your mother!" he
continued eagerly. "She and I are the best of friends. We rasp each
other now and then, but we both love you too much ever to come to real
trouble. I'm no angel, Mary," said George, looking down his cigar
thoughtfully, "but as men go, I'm a pretty decent man. You know how
much time I've spent at the club since we were married. You know the
fellows can't rope me into poker games or booze parties. I love my wife
and my kids and my home. But when I think of you, and realize how
unworthy I am of you, by Heaven--!" He choked, shook his head, finding
further speech for a moment difficult. "There's no man alive who's
worthy of you!" he finished. "The Lord's been very good to me."

Mary's eyes had filled, too. She sat for a minute, trying to