life with him. But, somehow, from the first, even before they
were married, when with Martin, such chatter had died unuttered
on Rose's tongue. The few remarks which she did venture,
nowadays, had the effect of a disconcerting splash before they
sank into the gloomy depths of the thick silence. Occasionally,
in sheer self defense, she carried on a light monologue, but
Martin's lack of interest gave her such an odd, lonely,
stage-struck sensation that she, too, became untalkative, keeping
to herself the ideas which chased through her ever-active mind.
Innately just, she attributed this peculiarity of his to the fact
that he had lived so long alone, and while it fretted her, she
usually forgave him. But tonight, as no answer came, it seemed to
her that if Martin did not at least raise his eyes, she must
scream or throw something.

"It would be a godsend to be the sort who permits oneself to do
such things," she told herself, a suggestion of a smile touching
her lips, and mentally she sent dish after dish at him, watching
them fall shattered to the floor. Dismay at the relief this gave
her brought the dimples into her cheeks. Her voice was pleasant
as she asked: "Martin, did you hear your spouse just now?"

Annoyance flitted across his face and crept into his tone as he
answered tersely: "Of course, I heard you." Presently he finished
his meal, pushed back his chair and went out.

Nothing further was said between them on the subject, but when
the scaffolding went up she saw that it was for only one story.
It might have comforted her a little, had she known what uneasy
moments Martin was having. In spite of himself, he could not