e this decorating business," Steve said in final condemnation.
"I agree with my father-in-law that when a man approaches me with a
book of sample braids and cretonnes under his arm I feel it only
righteous that he be shot at sunrise--and now you know how strong you
stand with me. I don't mind Beatrice having her whirl at the thing. A
new colour scheme as often as she has a manicure; that's different.
But my office stays as I wish it and you can't rush in any globes of
goldfish and inkstands composed of reclining young females with their
little hands forming the ink cup, while a single spray of cherry
blossoms flourishes over the hook I hang my hat and coat upon. Oh, no,
trot back to your boudoirs and purr your prettiest, but stop trying to
tackle real men."

Gaylord's one-cylinder brain had become more efficient by dint of
daily sparring with his wife. So he retorted: "She is going to make
you a present of it--your birthday gift, I understand. Does that alter
the case?"

Steve looked at him with an even wilder frown. "Tell her to build a
bomb-proof pergola for herself and mark it for me just the same. When
we redecorate round here it takes Miss Faithful about a half hour to
plan the show. Good-bye, Gay, I'm awfully rushed. Thanks just as
much."

Gaylord sauntered outside, smiling, apparently as if he accepted the
entire universe. But his one-cylinder brain harboured an unpleasant
secret which concerned Steve. Gaylord knew that Steve had not reckoned
with his enemies and that he was in no condition to begin doing so
now. Constantine was no longer at the helm, fearless, respected, and
dominating. Steve was quite the reckless egotist, out of love with his
wife, mentally jaded, and weary of the game--and his enemies surmised
all this in rough fashion and were making their plans accordingly. How
wonderful it would be if certain catastrophes did happen. How lucky
Beatrice had her own income! She would never cease ordering bomb-proof
pergolas or bird cages carved from rare woods.

The next day--before Beatrice and Steve had a chance to argue the
matter out to a fine point--Mark Constantine had a stroke. It was like
the sudden crashing down of a great oak tree which within had been
hollow and decayed for some time but to all exterior appearances quite
the sturdy monarch. Without warning he became first a mighty thing
lying day after day on a bed, fussed over and exclaimed over and
prayed over by a multitude of people. Then