he could trust, or who
understood.

The Calhoun girl, polishing the great black eyes of a pair of field
glasses, would look up brightly to say, "Well, how's the Invention
coming on?" Then he would tell her.

The Invention had to do with spectacles. Not only that, if you are a
wearer of spectacles of any kind, it has to do with you. For now, twelve
years later, you could not well do without it. The little contraption
that keeps the side-piece from biting into your ears--that's Raymond's.

Knowing, as we do, that Raymond's wife is named Cora we know that the
Calhoun girl of the fresh clear skin, the tailored white shirtwaists,
and the friendly interest in the Invention, lost out. The reason for
that was Raymond's youth, and Raymond's vanity, and Raymond's
unsophistication, together with Lucy Calhoun's own honesty and
efficiency. These last qualities would handicap any girl in love, no
matter how clear her skin or white her shirtwaist.

Of course, when Raymond talked to her about the Invention she should
have looked adoringly into his eyes and said, "How perfectly
_wonderful_! I don't see how you think of such things."

What she said, after studying its detail thoughtfully for a moment,
was: "Yeh, but look. If this little tiny wire had a spring
underneath--just a little bit of spring--it'd take all the pressure off
when you wear a hat. Now women's hats are worn so much lower over their
ears, d'you see? That'd keep it from pressing. Men's hats, too, for that
matter."

She was right. Grudgingly, slowly, he admitted it. Not only that, he
carried out her idea and perfected the spectacle contrivance as you know
it to-day. Without her suggestion it would have had a serious flaw. He
knew he ought to be grateful. He told himself that he was grateful. But
in reality he was resentful. She was a smart girl, but--well--a fella
didn't feel comfortable going with a girl that knew more than he did. He
took her to the theatre--it was before the motion picture had attained
its present-day virulence. She enjoyed it. So did he. Perhaps they might
have repeated the little festivity and the white shirtwaist might have
triumphed in the end. But that same week Raymond met Cora.

Though he had come to Chicago from Michigan almost a year before, he
knew few people. The Erwin H. Nagel Company kept him busy by day. The
Invention occupied him at night. He read, too, books on optometry. Don't
think that he was a Rollo. He wasn't. But he was n