understood managing and gave time to it. And socially
he was at last established.

Soon his wife was about as contented as she had ever
been in her life. She hated and despised her husband,
but quarreling with him and railing against him gave
her occupation and aim--two valuable assets toward
happiness that she had theretofore lacked. Her living
--shelter, food, clothing enough--was now secure.
But the most important factor of all in her content was
the one apparently too trivial to be worthy of record.
From girlhood she could not recall a single day in which
she had not suffered from her feet. And she had been
ashamed to say anything about it--had never let anyone,
even her maid, see her feet, which were about the
only unsightly part of her. None had guessed the
cause of her chronic ill-temper until Presbury, that
genius for the little, said within a week of their marriage:

``You talk and act like a woman with chronic corns.''

He did not dream of the effect this chance thrust had
upon his wife. For the first time he had really
``landed.'' She concealed her fright and her shame as
best she could and went on quarreling more viciously
than ever. But he presently returned to the attack.
Said he:

``Your feet hurt you. I'm sure they do. Now that
I think of it, you walk that way.''