circulars. But before he had said a word, but stood there, loving her
with that look--and it would have to be admitted Clara did look lovely,
in one of the _neglige_ affairs she affected so much--she said, with a
babyish little whine she evidently thought alluring: "I just don't see,
Wayne, why we can't have a new rug for the reception room. We can
certainly afford things as well as the Mitchells." And Wayne had just
stood there, with a smile which closed the gates and said, with an irony
not lost upon Katie, at least: "Why I fancy we can have a new rug, if
that is the thing most essential to our happiness." Clara had cried: "Oh
Wayne--you _dear_!" and twittered and fluttered around, but the
twittering and fluttering did not bring that light back to Wayne's face.
He went over to the far side of the room and began reading the paper, and
that grim little understanding smile--a smile at himself--made Katie
yearn to go over and wind her arms about his neck--dear strange Wayne who
had believed there was so much, and found so little, and who was so alive
to the bitter humor of being drawn to the heart of things only to be
pushed back to the outer rim. But Katie knew it was not her arms could do
any good, and so she had left the room, not clear-eyed, Clara still
twittering about the kind of rug she would have. And day by day she had
watched Wayne go back to the outer circle, that grim little smile as
mile-stones in his progress.

But he was folding his paper; it was growing too near the hour to
speculate longer on Wayne and his past.

"Wayne?" she began.

He looked up, smiling at the beseeching tone. "Yes? What is it, Katie?
Just what brand of boredom are you planning to inflict?"