it, we _can_ afford a cook, Anna. Come on; be reasonable."

She shook her head. "Oh! And I meant to tell you the wall-paper's
peeling off in the dining room, and the most _awful_ smell of fried
onions keeps coming up the dumb-waiter shaft."

Henry gathered her into his arms. "Dearest, in a year you can have a
dipperful of attar of roses for every fried onion. And we'll be so
rich you can mingle practically on equal terms with the plumber's
wife.... Now let's go put on the feed-bag. And by the way, I prefer my
steak slightly burned--it's more antiseptic."

He never suspected that ninety-nine percent of her difficulties were
imaginary, and that she had invented them as soon as she saw his
face.

A week later, the contractor brought in still another schedule, and
another estimate; Henry became Chesterfieldian in his politeness, and
wanted to know if a contract were a contract, or merely a piece of
light literature. The contractor was apologetic, but wages were going
up--materials were high--labour was scarce--transportation was
uncertain--shipments were slow--

Henry was angry and disillusioned, but he knew that belligerence would
gain him nothing. "In other words," he said, genially, "there's
something the matter with everything but the Orpheum, and everybody
but me. I congratulate myself. Well, when I do get the job finished,
and what does it cost--not to a minute and a fraction of a cent, of
course, but a general idea--what year, and--"

"Mr. Devereux!"

"And a guess that's within say, a couple of thousand dollars of the
real price."

"I hope you don't think _I_'m making any big profit out of this. To
tell the truth--"

"Oh, _I_ know," said Henry. "You're losing money. Don't deny it, you
eleemosynary rascal, don't deny it."

The man felt himself insulted, but Henry was smiling, and of course
that strange word might be something technical. "Well, to tell the
truth, we--"

"Come on, now. I know you're an altruist, but be a sport. You're
losing money, and the children are moaning with hunger in their little
trundle-beds, but when do I get the job done?"

"The second week in September."

"_This_ September? And the bill?"

"Shaved down so close there's hardly any--"

"Shave it every morning; it's being done. But what's your figure?"

"Seventy-six fifty."

There was nothing for Henry to do but to have a new date painted on
the sign, and to draw on his reserve fund, but at bottom he was vastly
perturb