"My wife?" he repeated. "Tell you about my wife? Why, there isn't
much to tell. She's little. And young. And was a school-teacher. And I
married her four years ago."

"And were happy--ever--after," mused the Youngish Girl teasingly.

"No!" contradicted the Traveling Salesman quite frankly. "No! We
didn't find out how to be happy at all until the last three years!"

Again his laughter rang out through the car.

"Heavens! Look at me!" he said at last. "And then think of
her!--Little, young, a school-teacher, too, and taking poetry to read
on the train same as you or I would take a newspaper! Gee! What would
you expect?" Again his mouth began to twitch a little. "And I thought
it was her fault--'most all of the first year," he confessed
delightedly. "And then, all of a sudden," he continued eagerly, "all
of a sudden, one day, more mischievous-spiteful than anything else, I
says to her, 'We don't seem to be getting on so very well, do we?' And
she shakes her head kind of slow. 'No, we don't!' she says.--'Maybe
you think I don't treat you quite right?' I quizzed, just a bit
mad.--'No, you don't! That is, not--exactly right,' she says, and came
burrowing her head in my shoulder as cozy as could be.--'Maybe you
could show me how to treat you--righter,' I says, a little bit
pleasanter.--'I'm perfectly sure I could!' she says, half laughing and
half crying. 'All you'll have to do,' she says, 'is just to watch
me!'--'Just watch what _you_ do?' I said, bristling just a bit
again.--'No,' she says, all pretty and soft-like; 'all I want you to
do is to watch what I _don't_ do!'"