I locked the door of my room, pulled down the shade and, exchanging my
house dress for a comfortable negligee, lay down upon my bed to think
things out.

I tried to put myself in Dicky's place, and to understand his reasons
for objecting to my earning any money of my own. I sat upright in bed
as a thought flashed across my brain. Was that the reason? Were his
objections to this plan of mine what he pretended they were? Did he
really fear that I might have unpleasant publicity thrust upon me, and
that some of our pleasure plans might be spoiled by the weekly lecture
engagement? Or was he the type of man who could not bear his wife to
have money or plans or even thoughts which did not originate with him?

I resolved to find out just what motive was behind his objections. If
he were willing that I should try to earn money in some other way
I would gladly refuse this offer. But if he were opposed to my ever
having any income of my own the issue might as well come now as later.

A loud ringing at the doorbell awakened me.

For a moment I could not understand how I came to be in bed. Then
I remembered and throwing off my negligee and putting on a little
afternoon gown, I twisted up my hair into a careless knot and hurried
to the door. The ring had been the postman's. The afternoon newspapers
lay upon the floor. With them was a letter with my former name upon
it in a handwriting that I knew. It had been forwarded from my old
boarding house. The superscription looked queer to me, as if it were
the name of some one I had known long ago.