pines--And then Elise wouldn't."

We went in to lunch after that. The table was lovely and the food
delicious. There was batter-bread, I remember, and an omelette, and peas
from the garden.

Duncan Street and I talked all the way home of Jimmie and his wife. He
didn't agree with me in the least about Elise. "She'll be the making of
him. Such wives always are."

But I held that he would lose something,--that he would not be the same
Jimmie.

* * * * *

Jimmie wrote plays and plays. In between he wrote pot-boiling books. The
pot-boilers were needed, because none of his plays were accepted. He
used to stop in our office and joke about it.

"If it wasn't for Elise's faith in me, Miss Standish, I should think
myself a poor stick. Of course, I can make money enough with my books
and short stuff to keep things going, but it isn't just money that
either of us is after."

Except when Jimmie came into the office we saw very little of him. Elise
gathered about her the men and women who would count in Jimmie's future.
The week-ends in the still old house drew not a few famous folk who
loathed the commonplaceness of convivial atmospheres. Elise had
old-fashioned flowers in her garden, delectable food, a library of old
books. It was a heavenly change for those who were tired of cocktail