Genevieve like that?"

"Genevieve," replied her husband loyally, "is much better poised than
most women, but--yes,--even she--all women are more or less like that."

"All women and Penny. Well, George, you have my sympathy. An excitable
partner, an irrational stenographer, and a wife that's very hard to deal
with!"

"I never said Genevieve was hard to deal with," George almost shouted.

"My mistake--thought you did," answered his uncle, now moving rapidly
away. "Let me know the result of the interview, and we'll talk over ways
and means." And he shut the door briskly behind him.

George walked to the window, with his hands in his pockets. He always
liked to look out while he turned over grave questions in his mind;
but this comfort was now denied to him, for he could not help being
distracted by the voiceless speech still relentlessly turning its pages
in the opposite window.

The heading now was:

DOES THE FIFTY-FOUR-HOUR-A-WEEK LAW APPLY TO FLOWERS?

He flung himself down on his chair with an exclamation. He knew he had
to think carefully about something which he had never considered before,
and that was his wife's character.

Of course he liked to think about Genevieve--; of her beauty, her
abilities, her charms; and particularly he liked to think about her love
for him.

A week ago he would have met the present situation very simply. He would
have put his arm about her and said: "My darling, I think I'd a little
rather you dropped this sort of thing for the present." And that would
have been enough.

But he knew it would not be enough now. He would have to have a reason,
a case.

"Heavens," he thought, "imagine having to talk to one's wife as if she
were the lawyer for the other side."

He did not notice that he was reproaching Genevieve for being too
impersonal, too unemotional and not irrational enough.

When he went home at five, he had thought it out. He put his head into
the sitting-room, where Alys was ensconced behind the tea-kettle.

"Come in, George dear," she called graciously, "and let me give you a
really good cup of tea. It's some I've just ordered for you, and I think
you'll find it an improvement on what you've been accustomed to." George
shut the door again, pretending he had not heard; but he had had time
enough to note that dear little Eleanor was building houses out of his
most treasured books.

The memory of his quarrel with his wife had been partly obliterated by
memories o