he did not come far into the room, but standing near the door and
looking at him with a new expression--patient, tender, the everlasting
eternal look--she said: "I couldn't sleep, either. I came down to say
something, George. Don't interrupt me----" for he was coming toward
her with sounds of affectionate protest at her being out of bed.
"Don't speak! I want to say--whatever you do, whatever you
decide--now--always--I love you. Even if I don't agree, I love you."

She turned and went swiftly away.

George stood looking at the place where she had stood,--this strange,
new Genevieve, who, promising to love, reserved the right to judge.

CHAPTER VIII. BY MARY HEATON VORSE

The high moods of night do not always survive the clear, cold light of
day. Indeed it requires the contribution of both man and wife to keep a
high mood in married life.

Genevieve had gone in to make her profession of faith to her husband
in a mood which touched the high altitudes. She had gone without any
conscious expectation of anything from him in the way of response. She
had vaguely but confidingly expected him to live up to the moment.

She had expected something beautiful, a lovely flower of the
spirit--comprehension, generosity. Living up to the demand of the moment
was George's forte. Indeed, there were those among his friends who felt
that there were moments when George lived up to things too brightly
and too beautifully. His Uncle Jaffry, for instance, had his openly
skeptical moments. But George even lived up to his uncle's skepticism.
He accepted his remarks with charming good humor. It was his pride that
he could laugh at himself.

At the moment of Genevieve's touching speech he lived up to exactly
nothing. He didn't even smile. He only stared at her--a stare which
said:

"Now what the devil do you mean by that?"

Genevieve had a flicker of bitter humor when she compared her moment of
sentiment to a toy balloon pulled down from the blue by an unsympathetic
hand.

The next morning, while George was still shaving, the telephone rang. It
was Betty.

"Can you have lunch with me at Thorne's, where we can talk?" she asked
Genevieve. "And give me a little time tomorrow afternoon?"

"Why," Genevieve responded, "I thought you were a working girl."

There was a perceptible pause before Betty replied.

"Hasn't George told you?" "Told what?" Genevieve inquired. "George
hasn't told me anything."

"I've left the office."

"L