the height of folly to leave it.

At breakfast, his wife ate sullenly, refusing to be drawn into the
conversation, but by a wise compression of her lips and a flicker of
amusement in her eyes, which seemed to say: "Oh, if only you could see
how absurd you appear," she contrived very cleverly to render Martin
miserably self-conscious. Hampered by this new and unexpected feeling,
his attempts to be pleasant fell flat and he lapsed into his old
grimness, while Rose, eating quickly, confined her remarks to her
determination to go to town in search of a job. Had Martin not talked
as he had to his wife he would have been able, undoubtedly, to disregard
her and to continue the line of chatter which he had hit upon so happily
and which he had never suspected was in him. But the fact, not so much
that she knew, but that from this vantage point of knowledge she was
ridiculing him, was too much for even his self-possession. It made the
light banter impossible. Especially, as there was no doubt that Rose did
not seem anxious for it.

For Martin had not been the only member of that household who had held
early communion with himself. The girl had sat long and dreamily at
her dressing table--the dainty one of rich, dark mahogany that Uncle
Martin's thoughtfulness had provided. It seemed unbelievable, but
there was no use pretending she was mistaken--Uncle Martin, Aunt Rose's
husband, was falling in love with her. She felt a little heady with the
excitement of it. He was so different from the callow youths and dapper
fellows who had heretofore worshipped at her shrine. There was something
so imposing, so important about him. She was conscious that a man so
much older might not appeal to many girls of her age, but it so happened
that he did appeal to her. She would be able to have everything she
wished, too--didn't she know how good, how kind, how tender he could
be. And her heart yearned toward him--he was so clearly misunderstood,
unhappy. But what about Aunt Rose? Well, then, why had she let herself
get to be so ugly? She looked as if the greases of her own kitchen stove
had cooked into her skin, thought the girl, mercilessly. Didn't she know
there was such a thing as a powder puff? Women like that brought their
own troubles upon themselves, that's what they did. And she was an old
prude, too. Anyone could see with half an eye that she didn't like the
idea of Uncle Martin learning to dance--why, she didn't even like his
getting the