chance to prove his unfitness for any of these callings, the fact
that he knew nothing of any of them did not greatly matter. At
these rebuffs Dolly was distinctly pleased. She argued they proved
he was intended to pursue his natural career as an author.

That their friends might know they were poor did not affect her,
but she did not want them to think by his taking up any outside
"job" that they were poor because as a literary genius he was a
failure. She believed in his stories. She wanted every one else to
believe in them. Meanwhile, she assisted him in so far as she could
by pawning the contents of five of the seven trunks, by learning to
cook on a " Kitchenette," and to laundry her handkerchiefs and iron
them on the looking-glass.

They faced each other across the breakfast-table. It was only nine
o'clock, but the sun beat into the flat with the breath of a
furnace, and the air was foul and humid.

"I tell you," Carter was saying fiercely, "you look ill. You are
ill. You must go to the sea-shore. You must visit some of your
proud, friends at East Hampton or Newport. Then I'll know you're
happy and I won't worry, and I'll find a job. I don't mind the
heat-and I'll write you love letters"--he was talking very fast and
not looking at Dolly--"like those I used to write you, before----"

Dolly raised her hand. "Listen!" she said. "Suppose I leave you.
What will happen? I'll wake up in a cool, beautiful brass bed,
won't I--with cretonne window-curtains, and salt air blowing them
about, and a maid to bring me coffee. And instead of a bathroom
like yours, next to an elevator shaft and a fire-escape, I'll have