"Thank you. I had no conception that I was broaching such a complex
subject. She sounds interesting, and my curiosity is whetted. You have
not mentioned the husband."

"To be sure. A burly, easy-going manufacturer of varnish, without much
education, I should judge. He is manifestly her inferior in half a dozen
ways, but I understand that he is making money, and he looks kind."

Wilbur Littleton's life since he had come to man's estate had been a
struggle, and he was only just beginning to make headway. He had never
had time to commiserate himself, for necessity on the one hand and
youthful ambition on the other had kept his energies tense and his
thoughts sane and hopeful. He and his sister Pauline, a year his senior,
had been left orphans while both were students by the death of their
father on the battlefield. To persevere in their respective tastes and
work out their educations had been a labor of love, but an undertaking
which demanded rigorous self-denial on the part of each. Wilbur had
determined to become an architect. Pauline, early interested in the
dogma that woman must no longer be barred from intellectual
companionship with man, had sought to cultivate herself intelligently
without sacrificing her brother's domestic comfort. She had succeeded.
Their home in New York, despite its small dimensions and frugal
hospitality, was already a favorite resort of a little group of
professional people with busy brains and light purses. Wilbur was in the
throes of early progress. He had no relatives or influential friends to
give him business, and employment came slowly. He had been an architect
on his own account for two years, but was still obliged to supplement
his professional orders by work as a draughtsman for others. Yet his
enthusiasm kept him buoyant. In respect to his own work he was