anybody with a nerve in his
composition? It takes it out of one tremendously, Olive," Dolph frowned
intently; "and it's a curious fact that it takes it out of me worse on
his good days than on his bad ones."

Olive glanced up sharply.

"I didn't know he had any bad ones; at least, not to show them out."

Dolph shook his head at the street in general.

"That's the woman of you, Olive; the woman in you, I mean. Opdyke is
morally bound to hold it all in, when you're in sight and hearing. No
man that's half a man will squeak before a woman, and Opdyke's all man,
fast enough. Yes, poor devil, he does have his bad days, like all the
rest of us. However, the rest of us can arise and lick somebody, if the
spirit moves us; and poor old Opdyke has to lie still and take it out
in swearing. He does swear, too; and now and then his temper is
positively vitriolic."

"Reed's?" Olive's voice betrayed indignation, incredulity.

"Rather." Dolph laughed. "On one or two occasions, it has risen to that
level." Then he sobered. "Don't begrudge him the relief of it, Olive.
It's his one salvation, his one road of escape from something that
easily might be madness. Have you thought about the change it's made
for him?"

"Dolph! Do any of us ever think of anything else?"

For an instant, he eyed her keenly, apparently seeking to discover what
underlay her words. Then,--

"Not when we are with him, I fancy," he assented. "And, of course, I
never knew him much till now, so even I can't take it all in, the way
you do. Still, I can imagine it a little, imagine what it must be, to
an out-door man like him, to be shut up in that one room, packed in
with all the frilly duds Mrs. Opdyke has stuffed in around him. Really,
I'd feel exactly like a mutton chop in a tissue-paper flounce, myself.
The frills add to the ignominy. Why can't she let him have the good of
all the bare, empty space he can get, even if it isn't much?"

Olive interrupted.

"Dolph, you're not the dunce you might be. That's a good idea."

He nodded.

"It's common sense. Fancy, Olive, if you were laid low, which heaven
forfend, and had to live mainly on the fruits of your imagination,
wouldn't you grow more of those fruits on a bit of blank, sunny wall
than on a perfect trellis work of messy little pictures and ruffled
lace and calico hangings? It's worth your while to think it over, and
then to summon Mrs. Opdyke to think it over with you. We men want
space, not gimcrac