She didn't want to decide what he should have for dinner. She
didn't want to weigh the merits of beefsteak and mushrooms or beefsteak
and onions--onions!

He felt suddenly old, fat, bald-headed! The glow had faded from
everything. He did not protest or attempt to persuade her. He took his
hat, kissed her hand and got away.

Aunt Priscilla coming in found Dulcie in tears by the fire.

"I've given him up, Aunt Cilla."

"Why?"

"Well, it wouldn't be right."

She came into Aunt Priscilla's bedroom later to talk it over. She had
on the rosy house coat. She spoke of going back to Paris.

"It will be better for both of us. After all, Aunt Cilla, we are what we
are fundamentally, and we Puritans can't get away from our consciences,
can we?"

"Some of us," said Aunt Priscilla, "can't."

The old woman lay awake a long time that night, thinking it out. She was
glad that Dulcie had stopped the thing in time. But she had a feeling
that the solution of the situation could not be laid to an awakened
conscience. She hoped that some day Dulcie would tell her the truth.

* * * * *

It was still raining when Mills reached home. The house was dark, the
fire had died down. He went up-stairs. The boys were in bed. There was a
light in Mary's room. He opened the door. Mary was propped up on her
pillows reading a book.

He stopped, uncertain, on the threshold.

"Come in," she said, "my head's better."

He crossed the room and stood beside her.

"Oh, Mary," he said, and his face worked. He dropped on his knees by the
bed and cried like a child.

She laid her hand on his head and smoothed his thin hair.

"Poor Mills!" she said softly; "poor old Mills!" Then after a moment,
brightly: "It will do us both good to have some coffee. Run along,
Mills, and start the percolator; I'll be down in a minute to get the
supper."

BURNED TOAST

I

Perry Cunningham and I had been friends for years. I was older than he,
and I had taught him in his senior year at college. After that we had
traveled abroad, frugally, as befitted our means. The one quarrel I had
with fate was that Perry was poor. Money would have given him the
background that belonged to him--he was a princely chap, with a
high-held head. He had Southern blood in his veins, which accounted
perhaps for an almost old-fashioned charm of manner, as if he carried on
a gentlemanly tradition.

We went through the art galleries together.