and David went to the station as they had gone from it, alone in
Aunt Clara's car. All the way he was trying to tell her of the new
resolve he had taken when Jonathan and Esther Summers made music for him.
It was strangely hard to tell. Not until they were in the station, with
but a few minutes left, did he find words for the essay.

"Shirley, I'm afraid you thought I was pretty babyish--about giving up my
profession. I--I _was_ babyish. I'd like you to know I've got my nerve
back."

Shirley was very sweet about it. "I did think you were a little foolish
to take it so hard, dear, when the old architecture never brought us
anything but disappointments. I always knew you would come to look at it
sensibly."

And she dismissed the subject with the carelessness it may have deserved.
"When do you think Mr. Radbourne will raise your salary?"

"Probably before I have earned it."

"David, do you think we'll _ever_ be rich?"

"I suppose not. There seems little chance of it."

She sighed.

"There is nothing in the world but money, is there?"

Tears of self-pity were coming into her eyes. "It's terrible, having to
look forward to being poor forever."

The train announcer made loud noises through a megaphone. David rose and
looked down in a sudden daze at the pretty young woman who was his
wife--to whom he had become but a disappointing means to an end, to whom
his heart, though he might thrust it naked and quivering before her eyes,
would ever be a sealed book inspiring no interest. His pretty house of
love was swaying, falling, and he could not support it.

"And I begin to think," he said queerly, "that we'll always be
hopelessly, miserably poor."

Even Shirley could perceive a cryptic quality in that speech.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing that need disturb you. I have no reason," he added grimly, "to
believe that it will disturb you."

She eyed him reproachfully and gave a sigh of patience sorely taxed.

"David, I wonder if you never realize that in some of your moods you are
very hard to understand."

"Too temperamental, I suppose? Right as always, my dear." He laughed.
Men sometimes laugh because they can not weep. But Shirley did not know
that. "But I think I can promise you--no more temperament. I'm learning
a cure for that. And now I'd better turn you over to Charles. I think
that noise means my train is ready."

He took her to the car, kissed her and helped her into the seat