“Oh, please don’t touch me, just for a minute!” she exclaimed. “Please please just stop a minute!”

She did not realize that her tone was very much that of a patient addressing a dentist. Francis’s arms dropped, and he looked at her, all the light going out of his face, and showing its weary lines. He closed the door entirely, carefully. He went mechanically over to a chair and sat down on it, always with that queer carefulness; he laid his cap beside him, and looked at Marjorie, crouched against the door.

“Please come over here and sit down,” he said very courteously, but with the boyishness gone from his voice even more completely than Marjorie had wished.

She came very meekly and sat opposite him, with a little queer cold feeling around her heart.

“Please look at me,” he asked gently. She lifted her blue eyes miserably to his, and tried to smile. But unconsciously she shrank a little as she did so, and he saw it.

“I won’t touch you not until you want me to,” he began. “What’s the matter, Marjorie? Is it nerves, or are you afraid of me, or ”

“It it was just your coming so suddenly,” she lied miserably. “It upset me. That was all.”

In her mind there was fixed firmly the one thing, that she mustn’t be a coward, she must go through with it, she must pretend well enough to make Francis think she felt the way she ought to. The Francis of pre-war times would have been fooled; but this man had been judging men and events that took as keen a mind as seeing through a frightened girl. He looked at her musingly, his face never changing. She rose and came over to him and put her hand on his shoulder. She even managed to laugh.

“Do you mind my being upset?” she asked.

“No,” he said, “if that’s all it is. But you have a particular kind of terror about you that I don’t like. Or I think you have.”

She took her hand away, hurt by the harshness of his voice then, seeing his face, understood that he was not knowingly harsh. She had hurt him terribly by that one unguarded moment, and she would have to work very hard to put it out of sight.

“I I haven’t any terror ” she began to say.

He made himself smile a little at that.

“You mustn’t have,” he said. “We’ll sit down on the davenport over there that Lucille’s grandmother gave her for a wedding-present you see how well I remember the news about all the furniture? And we’ll talk about it all quietly.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” said Marjorie desperately. She went obediently over to the davenport and sat down by him.

“You were upset at seeing me?” he began.

“It was well, it was so sudden!” dimpled Marjorie, quoting the tag with the sudden whimsicality which even death would probably find her using.

“And I still seem do I seem like a strange person to you, dear?” he asked wistfully. “You don’t seem strange to me, you know. You seem like the wife I love.”

The worst of it was that when Francis was gay and like a playmate, as he had been at their luncheon before Logan came, she could feel that things were nearly all right. But when he spoke as he was speaking now the terror of him came back worse than ever.

“No. No, you don’t seem strange at all,” she said. “Why should you?” But while she spoke the words she knew they were not true. She looked at him, and his face was like a stranger’s face. She had known other men as well as she had known her husband, except for the brief while when she had promised to marry him. She took stock of his features; the straight, clearly marked black brows under the mark the cap made on his forehead; the rather high cheekbones, the clear-cut nose and chin, the little line of black mustache that did not hide his hard-set and yet sensitive lips; the square, rather long jaw “He’ll have deep lines at the sides of his mouth in a few more years,” she thought, and “He’s much darker than I remembered him. But he has no color under the brown. I thought he had a good deal of color . . .” She appraised his face, not liking it altogether, as if she had never seen it before. His hand, long, narrow, muscular, burned even more deeply than his face, and with a fine black down lying close over it, seemed a hand she had never seen or been touched by before. But that was his wedding-ring her wedding-ring on the thin third finger. She even knew that inside it was an inscription “Marjorie Francis ” and the date of their wedding. Hers was like it. He had bought them and had them inscribed with everything but the actual date before she had given in; that had been put in, of course, the week before their marriage. Oh, what right had he to be wearing her wedding-ring?

“Would you like a little time to think it over?” he asked heavily.

She was irrationally angry at him. What right had he to think she needed time to think it over? Why hadn’t he the decency to be deceived by her behavior? Then she stole another look at him, with all the gaiety and youth gone out of his face, and made up her mind that the anger ought to be on his side. But it apparently was not.

“Oh, please don’t mind!” she begged him, abandoning some of her defenses. “It’s true, I do feel a little strange, but I’m sure it will all come straight if if I wait a little. You see, you were gone so long.”

“Yes. I worried a lot about it on shipboard,” he answered her directly. His face did not lighten, but there was a sort of relief in his tone, as if actually knowing the truth was better than being fenced with. “I thought to myself ’I hurried her into it so. I wonder if she really will care when I come back.’ It was such a long time. But then your letters were so sweet and loving, and I cared such a lot ”

His voice broke. He had been talking on a carefully emotionless dead level, but now he suddenly stopped as if he had come to the end of his control. But he was only silent a moment, and went on:

“I cared so much that I thought you must. That’s a queer thing, isn’t it? You’ve known all your life that other people think if they care enough the other person will care, and you know they’re idiots. And then your time comes, and you go and are the same old idiot yourself. . . . Queer. Well, I’m sorry, Marjorie. Shall I go now? We can think about what we’d better do next time we talk it over.”

“Oh, please, please!” begged Marjorie. “Oh, Francis, I feel like a dog a miserable, little coward-dog. And and I don’t know why you’re making all this up. I I haven’t said anything like what ”

He put his arm around her, not in the least as if he were her lover. It only felt protecting, not like a man’s touch.

“I would be glad to think you cared for me. But I am almost sure you don’t. Everything you have said, and every one of your actions since we came in, have seemed to me as if you didn’t. It isn’t your fault, poor little thing. It’s mine for hurrying you into it. . . . Marjorie, Marjorie do you?”

There was an intense entreaty in his tone. But she knew that only the truth would do.

“No,” she said, dropping her head.

“I thought not,” he said, rising stiffly and crossing to the door. “Well, I’ll go now. I’ll come back some time to-morrow, whenever it’s most convenient for you, and we’ll discuss details.”

She ran after him. She did feel very guilty.

“Oh, Francis Francis! Please don’t go! I’m sure I’ll feel the way I should when I’ve tried a little longer!”

He stopped for a moment, but only to write something down on a piece of paper.

“There’s my telephone number,” he said. “No, Marjorie, I can’t stay any longer. This has been pretty bad. I’ve got to go off and curl up a minute, I think, if you don’t mind. . . . Oh, dearest, don’t you see that I can’t stay? I’ll have myself straightened out by to-morrow, but ”

He had been acting very reasonably up to now. But now he flung himself out the door like a tornado. It echoed behind him. Marjorie did not try to keep him. She sat still for a minute longer, shivering. Then she began to cry. She certainly did not want him for her husband, but equally she did not want him to go off and leave her. So she went over to the davenport again, where she could cry better, and did wonders in that line, in a steady, low-spirited way, till Lucille came breezily in.

Lucille Strong was a plump, exuberant person with corn-colored hair and bright blue eyes and the most affectionate disposition in the world. She also had a quick, fly-away temper, and more emotions than principles. But her sense of humor was so complete, and her sunniness so steady that nobody demanded great self-sacrifice from her. Who wouldn’t give anybody the biggest piece of cake and the best chair and the most presents, for the sake of having a Little Sunshine in the home? At least, that was the way Billy Strong had looked at it. He had been perfectly willing to put off his marriage until Lucille decreed that there was money enough for her to have her little luxuries after marriage, in order to eventually possess Lucille. People always and automatically gave her the lion’s share of all material things, and she accepted them quite as automatically. She was a very pleasant housemate, and if she coaxed a little, invisibly, in order to acquire the silk stockings and many birthday presents and theater tickets which drifted to her, why, as she said amiably, people value you more when they do things for you than when you do things for them.

“Why, you poor lamb!” she said with sincere sympathy, pouncing on the desolate and very limp Marjorie. “What’s the matter? Did Francis have to go away from you? Look here, honey, you can have my ”

What Lucille was about to offer was known only to herself, because she never got any farther. Marjorie sat up, her blue eyes dark-circled with tears, and perhaps with the strain she had been undergoing.

“Yes,” she said in a subdued voice. “He he had to go. He’ll be back to-morrow.”

Lucille pounced again, and kissed Marjorie rapturously, flushed with romance.

“Oh, isn’t it wonderful to have him back! And Billy may be back any minute, too! Marge, what on earth shall we do about the apartment? It isn’t big enough for three; and I can’t keep it on alone. And the wretched thing’s leased for six months longer. You know we thought they’d be coming back together. But you and Francis can take it over ”

“I I don’t think we need to worry about that,” said Marjorie, “for a while longer. I’ve made up my mind to go on working. I’d be restless without my work. Filing’s really very exciting when you’re accustomed to it ”

Lucille released her housemate and leaned back on the davenport, the better to laugh. As she did so she flung off her coat and dropped it on the floor, in the blessed hope that Marjorie would pick it up, which usually happened. But Marjorie did not.

“Filing,” Lucille said through her laughter, “is undoubtedly the most stimulating amusement known to the mind of man. I wonder they pay you for doing it they ought to offer it as a reward! Oh, Marge, you’ll kill me! Now, you might as well be honest, my child. You know you always tell me things eventually why not now? What are your plans, and did Francis bring any souvenirs? I told him to be sure to bring back some of that French perfume that you wouldn’t let him get you because it was too expensive for his income. I wonder he ever respected you again after that, incidentally. Did he?”

“Did he respect me? I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Marjorie dispiritedly. She knew that she would tell Lucille all about it in two more minutes, and she did not want to.

“No, darling! Did he bring the perfume?”

“I don’t know,” said Marjorie. “Lucille, you haven’t had your bath yet.”

“Did you light the hot water for me?”

“No, I forgot,” said Marjorie.

“All right, I’ll light it,” said Lucille amiably. She was deflected by this, and trotted out into the tiny kitchen to light the gas under the hot water heater. She came back in an exquisite blue crepe negligee, and curled herself back of Marjorie on the davenport while she waited for the water to heat, and for Marjorie to tell her about it all.

“I wish my hair curled naturally,” she said idly, slipping her fingers up the back of Marjorie’s neck, where little fly-away rings always curled.

“I wish it did,” said Marjorie with absent impoliteness.

Lucille laughed again.

“Come back, dear! Remember, I haven’t any happy reunion to weep over yet, and be sympathetic. And I have an engagement for dinner, and how will I ever keep it if you don’t tell me everything Francis said? When did he see Billy last?”

“He didn’t say.”

“What did he say?”

“He said,” said Marjorie, turning around with blazing eyes and pouring forth her words like a fountain, “that he’d wondered if I really loved him, and now he was sure I didn’t. And that he’d come back some time to-morrow and discuss details. And he gave me his telephone number, and said he couldn’t stay any longer, and it was pretty bad, and he had to curl up ”

“Marjorie! Marjorie! Stop! This is a bad dream you’ve had, or something out of Alice in Wonderland! Francis never said he had to curl up. Curl up what?”

“Curl up himself, I suppose,” said Marjorie with something very like a sob. “I was perfectly rational and it made me feel dreadful to hear him say it, and I knew just what he meant. Curl up like a dog when it’s hurt. Curl up!”

“Don’t! I am!” said Lucille. “If you issue any more orders in that tone I’ll look like a caterpillar. Now, what really did happen, Marjorie?” she ended in a gentler tone and more seriously.

She pulled Marjorie’s head over on to her own plump shoulder, and put an arm round her.

“It was all my fault. I don’t love him any more. I don’t want to be married to him. I didn’t mean to show it, I meant to be very good about it, but he knows so much more than he did when he went away. He knew it directly. And now he’s dreadfully hurt.”

“You poor little darling! What a horrid time you’ve been having all this time everybody’s been thinking you were looking forward to his coming home. Why, you must have nearly gone crazy!”

“It’s worse for him,” said Marjorie in a subdued voice, nestling down on Lucille’s shoulder.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Lucille comfortably. “Men can generally take care of themselves. . . . But are you sure you don’t love him the least little bit?”

“I’m afraid of him. He’s like somebody strange. . . . It’s so long ago.”

“So long ago an’ so far away, le’s hope it ain’ true!” quoted Lucille amiably. “Well, darling, if you don’t want to marry him you needn’t I mean, if you don’t want to stay married to him you needn’t. I’m sure something can be done. Francis is perfectly sure to do anything you like, he adores you so.”

But this didn’t seem to give comfort, either. And as the boiler was moaning with excess of heat, Lucille dashed for the bathtub. She talked to Marjorie through the flimsy door as she splashed, to the effect that Marjorie had much better let her call up another man and go out on a nice little foursome, instead of staying at home. But there Marjorie was firm. She would have preferred anything to her own society, but she felt as if any sort of a party would have been like breaking through first mourning.

So she saw Lucille, an immaculate vision of satins and picture hats, go off gaily with her cavalier, and remained herself all alone in the little room, lying on the sofa, going over everything that had happened and ending it differently. She was very tired, and felt guiltier and guiltier as time went on. Finally she rose and went to the telephone and called the number Francis had left.

The voice that answered her was very curt and very quiet.

“Yes. . . . This is Captain Ellison. Yes, Marjorie? What is it?”

It seemed harder than ever to say what she had to say in the face of that distant, unemotional voice. But Marjorie had come to a resolve, and went steadily on.

“I called up to say, Francis, that I am ready to go with you anywhere you want to, at any time. I will try to be a good wife to you.”

She clung to the telephone, her heart beating like a triphammer there in the dark, waiting for his answer. It seemed a long time in coming. When it did, it was furious.

“I don’t want you to go with me anywhere, at any time. I don’t want a wife who has to try to be a good wife to me.”

He hung up with an effect of flinging the receiver in her face.

Marjorie almost ran back to the davenport she was beginning to feel as if the davenport was the nearest she had to a mother and flung herself on it in a storm of angry tears. He was unjust. He was violent. She didn’t want a man like that what on earth had she humiliated herself that way for, anyway? What was the use of trying to be honorable and good and fair and doing things for men, when they treated you like that? Francis had proposed and proposed and proposed she hadn’t been so awfully keen on marrying him. . . . It had just seemed like the sort of thing it would be thrilling to do. Well, thank goodness he did feel that way. She was better off without people like that, anyhow. She would go back home to Westchester, and live a patient, meek, virtuous life under Cousin Anna Stevenson’s thumb, as she had before she got the position at the office or got married. She certainly couldn’t go back to the office and explain it all to them. At least, she wouldn’t. It would be better, even if Cousin Anna did treat everybody as if they were ten and very foolish. . . . And she had refused the offer of a nice foursome and one of Lucille’s cheerful friends, to stay home and be treated this way!

She rose and went to the telephone again, with blazing cheeks.

She called up, on the chance, Logan’s number; and amazingly got him. And she invited him on the spot to come over the next evening and have something in a chafing-dish with Lucille and herself. Lucille, she knew, had no engagement for that evening, and could produce men, always, out of thin air. Marjorie chose Logan because Francis had said he didn’t like him. She had been a little too much afraid, before that, of Logan’s literariness to dare call him up. But that night she would have dared the Grand Cham of Tartary, if that dignitary had had a phone number and been an annoyance to Francis Ellison.

Logan, to her surprise, accepted eagerly, and even forgot to be mannered. He did, it must be said, keep her at the telephone, which was a stand-up one, for an hour, while he talked brilliantly about the Italian renaissance in its ultimate influence on the arts and crafts movement of the present day. To listen to Logan was a liberal education at any moment, if a trifle too much like attending a lecture. But at least he didn’t expect much answering.

She went to the office, next day, in more or less of a dream. She was very quiet, and worked very hard. Nobody said much to her; she took care not to let them. When stray congratulations came her way, as they were bound to, and when old Mr. Morrissey, the vice-head, said, “I suppose we can’t hope to keep you long now,” and beamed, she answered without any heartbeatings or difficulty. She was quite sure she would never feel gay again; she had had so much happen to her. But it was rather pleasant not to be able to have any feelings, if a little monotonous. The only thing at all on her mind was the question as to how much cheese a party of four needed for a rarebit, and whether Logan would or could eat rarebits at night. And even that was to a certain degree a matter of indifference.

She finally decided that scallops a la King might be more what he would eat. She bought them on her way home, together with all the rest of the things she needed. Lucille had produced a fourth person with her usual lack of effort, and it promised to be if anything in life could have been anything but flavorless rather a good party.

In fact, it was. It was a dear little apartment that the girls shared, with a living-room chosen especially for having nice times in. It was lighted by tall candles, and had a gas grate that was almost human. There was a grand piano which took up more than its share of room, there was the davenport aforesaid, there were companionable chairs and taborets acquired by Lucille and kept by Marjorie in the exact places where they looked best; there were soft draperies, also hemmed and put up by Marjorie. The first thing visitors always said about it was that it made them feel comfortable and at home. They generally attributed the homelikeness to Lucille, who was dangerously near looking matronly, rather than to Marjorie, who would be more like a firefly than a matron even when she became a grandmother.

Marjorie, with cooking to do, tied up in a long orange colored apron, almost forgot things. She loved to make things to eat. Lucille, meanwhile, sat on the piano-stool and played snatches of “The Long, Long Trail,” and the men, Lucille’s negligible one and Marjorie’s Mr. Logan, made themselves very useful in the way of getting plates and arranging piles of crackers. The small black kitten which had been a present to Lucille from the janitor, who therefore was a mother to it while the girls were out, sat expectantly on the edge of all the places where he shouldn’t be, purring loudly and having to be put down at five-minute intervals.

“I suppose this is a sort of celebration of your having your husband back,” said the Lucille man presently to Marjorie. He had been told so, indeed, by Lucille, who was under that impression herself, Logan looked faintly surprised. He, to be frank, had forgotten all about Marjorie’s having a husband who had to be celebrated.

Marjorie nearly spilled the scallops she was serving at that moment, and the kitten, losing its self-control entirely, climbed on the table with a cry of entreaty for the excellent fish-smelling dishful of things to eat. It was lucky for Marjorie that he did, because while she was struggling with him Lucille answered innocently for her.

“Yes, more or less. But he’s late. Where’s your perfectly good husband, Marge?”

“Late, I’m afraid,” Marjorie answered, smiling, and wondering at herself for being able to smile. “We aren’t to wait for him.”

“Sensible child,” Lucille answered. “I’m certainly very hungry.”

She drew her chair up to the low table the men had pushed into the center of the room, sent one of them to open the window, rather than turn out the cheerful light of the gas grate, and the real business of the party began.

It was going on very prosperously, that meal; even Mr. Logan was heroically eating the same things the rest did, and not taking up more than his fair share of the conversation, when there was a quick step on the stairs. Nobody heard it but Marjorie, who stood, frozen, just as she had risen to get a fork for somebody. She knew Francis’s step, and when he clicked the little knocker she forced herself to go over and let him in.

He came in exactly as if he belonged there; but after one quick glance at the visitors he drew Marjorie aside into the little inner room.

“Marjorie, I’ve come to say I was unkind and unfair over the telephone. I’ve made up my mind that you are fonder of me than you know. I think it will be all right it was foolish of me to be too proud to take you unless you were absolutely willing. Let me take back what I said, and forgive me. I know it will be all right Marjorie!”

She gave him a furious push away from her. Her eyes blazed.

“It never will be all right! It isn’t going to have a chance to be!” she told him, as angry as he had been when she called him up. “You had your chance and you wouldn’t take it. I don’t want to be your wife, and I never will be. That’s all there is to say.”

She took a step in the direction of the outer room. He put out a hand to detain her.

“Marjorie! Marjorie! Don’t!”

“I’m going out there, and going to keep on having the nice time I had before you came. If you try to do anything I’ll probably make a scene.”

“You’re going to give me one more chance,” he said. “That’s settled.”

She looked at him defiantly.

“Try to make me,” was all she said, wrenching her wrist out of his hand.

“I will,” said Francis grimly.

She smiled at him brilliantly as he followed her into the room where the others were.

“I’m afraid there isn’t any way,” she said sweetly.

Lucille, who had not seen Francis before, flew at him now with a welcome which was affectionate enough to end effectually any further ardors or defiances.

“And you’re in time for your own party after all,” she ended, smiling sunnily at him and pushing him into a chair. She gave him a plate of scallops and a fork, and the party went on as it had before. Only Marjorie eyed him with nervous surprise. “What will he do next?” she wondered.