good now. I simply can't go to another ball."

"Where's your trousseau?"

"It's worn out-danced to rags. And out of date, too."

"I don't understand it, Nina. You and Leslie have a good income.
Your mother and I--"

"You didn't have any social demands. And wedding presents! If one
more friend of mine is married--"

He would get out his checkbook and write a check slowly and
thoughtfully. And tearing it off would say:

"Now remember, Nina, this is for Christmas. Don't feel aggrieved
when the time comes and you have no gift from us."

But he knew that when the time came Margaret, his wife, would hold
out almost to the end, and then slip into a jeweler's and buy Nina
something she simply couldn't do without.

It wasn't quite fair, he felt. It wasn't fair to Jim or to
Elizabeth. Particularly to Elizabeth.

Sometimes he looked at Elizabeth with a little prayer in his heart,
never articulate, that life would be good to her; that she might
keep her illusions and her dreams; that the soundness and
wholesomeness of her might keep her from unhappiness. Sometimes,
as she sat reading or sewing, with the light behind her shining