ness men--if
they've got it in them to care for anything else."

"Well, don't add to the tragedy by cultivating jealousy. I've told you
that I am perfectly willing to give up Society and sit like Dora holding
your pens--or filling your fountain pen--no, you dictate. What chance has
a woman in a business man's life?"

"None, alas, except to look beautiful and be happy. Are you that?--the
last I mean, of course!"

She nestled closer to him and laughed again. "More so than ever. To be
frank you have completed my happiness by being jealous. I have wondered
sometimes if it were a compliment--your being so sure of me."

"That's my idea of love."

"Well, it's mine, too. But if you want me to stay home--"

"Oh, no! You are fond of society? Really, I mean? Why shouldn't you
be?--a young thing--"

"What else is there? Of course, I should enjoy it much more if you were
always with me. Shall we never have that year in Europe together?"

"God knows. Something is wrong with the world. It needs
reorganizing--from the top down. It is inhuman, the way even rich men
have to work--to remain rich! But sit down."

He led her over to a chair before the window. The storm was decreasing in
violence, the heavy curtain of rain was no longer tossed, but falling in
straight intermittent lines, and the islands were coming to life. Even
the high and heavy crest of Mount Tamalpais was dimly visible.

"It is the last of the storms, I fancy. Spring is overdue," said Price,
who, however, was covertly watching his wife's face. Her color had faded
a little, her lids drooped over eyes that stared out at the still
turbulent waters.

"I love these San Francisco storms," she said abruptly. "I am so glad we
have these few wild months. But Mrs. Thornton has worried and so have we.
Her fete at San Mateo comes off on the fourteenth, the first
entertainment she has given since her return, and it would be ghastly if
it rained. It should be a wonderful sight--those grounds--everybody in
fancy dress with little black velvet masks. Don't you think you can go?"

"The fourteenth? I'll try to make it. Who are you to be?"

"Beatrice d'Este--in a court gown of black tissue instead of velvet, with
just a touch of pink--oh, but a wonderful creation! I designed it myself.
We are not bothering too much about historical accuracy."

"How would you like this for the touch of pink!" He took the immense ruby
from his pocket and tossed it into her lap.

For a momen