“Remember me to him,” he said. “And tell him I thank him for all those years of love and gentleness. I don’t think he will be offended.” “I’m just running round to the doctor’s,” she whispered. “His medicine hasn’t come. I shan’t be long.”!

Joan seated herself, and drew the child towards her. She glanced round and lowered her voice. “They tell me,” she said, “that you’re a B.A.”

“It still sells,” answered the proprietor, and editor and publisher, and entire staff of The Rationalist. These small hypocrisies were new to her. She hoped she was not damaging her character. But it was good, watching him slyly from under drawn-down lids, to see the flash of triumph that would come into his tired eyes in answer to her half-protesting: “Yes, I see your point, I hadn’t thought of that,” her half reluctant admission that “perhaps” he was right, there; that “perhaps” she was wrong. It was delightful to see him young again, eager, boyishly pleased with himself. It seemed there was a joy she had not dreamed of in yielding victory as well as in gaining it. A new tenderness was growing up in her. How considerate, how patient, how self-forgetful he had always been. She wanted to mother him. To take him in her arms and croon over him, hushing away remembrance of the old sad days. She turned and looked at him then. She wondered why she had ever thought him ugly.