"Yes, I've done her out of that, too," he says abysmally, "as well as
sticking her in St. Louis while I stay here and can't even drag down enough
money to support her--"

"Oh, Ollie, snap out of it! That's only being dramatic. You know darn well
you will darn soon. I'll be saying 'bless you, my children, increase and
multiply,' inside a month if your novel goes through."

"If! Oh well. Oh hell. I think I've wept on your shoulder long enough for
tonight, Ted. Tell me your end of it--things breaking all right?"

Ted's face sets into lines that seem curiously foreign and aged for the
smooth surface.

"Well--you know my trouble," he brings out at last with some difficulty.
"You ought to, anyhow--we've talked each other over too much when we
were both rather planko for you not to. I'm getting along, I think. The
work--_ca marche assez bien_. And the restlessness--can be stood. That's
about all there is to say."

Both are completely serious now.

"Bon. Very glad," says Oliver in a low voice.

"I can stand it. I was awful afraid I couldn't when I first got back. And
law interests me, really, though I've lost three years because of the war.
And I'm working like a pious little devil with a new assortment of damned
and when you haven't any money you can't go on parties in New York unless
you raise gravy riding to a fine art. Only sometimes--well, you know how it
is--"