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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 353 pages of information about O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories of 1920.

“Can’t she do something for him?” she said.  “Make her bring him a great building.  That would save him.”

It was this message that I carried home to Rose; at least I suggested the idea to her as if it were my own.  I had my doubts of her being able to carry it out.

Out of loyalty to Julian, or perhaps I ought to say out of loyalty to Anne, we had all accepted Rose, but we should soon have loved her in any case.  She was extraordinarily sweet and docile, and gave us, those at least who were not parents, our first window to the east, our first link with the next generation, just at the moment when we were relinquishing the title ourselves.  I am afraid that some of the males among us envied Julian more than perhaps in the old days we had ever envied him Anne.

But we hardly expected her to further his career as Anne had done, and yet, oddly enough, that was exactly what she did.  Her methods had all the effectiveness of youth and complete conviction.  She forced Julian on her friends and relations, not so much on his account as on theirs.  She wanted them to be sure of the best.  The result was that orders flowed in.  Things took a turn for the better and continued to improve, as I was able to report to Anne when I went to see her at Florence or at Paris.  She was always well lodged, well served, and surrounded by the pleasantest people, yet each time I saw her she had a look exiled and circumscribed, a look I can only describe as that of a spirit in reduced circumstances.

She was always avid for details of Julian and all that concerned him, and as times improved I was stupid enough to suppose I pleased her by giving them from the most favourable angle.  It seemed to me quite obvious, as I saw how utterly she had ruined her own life, that she ought at least to have the comfort of knowing that she had not sacrificed it in vain.  And so I allowed myself, not an exaggeration but a candour more unrestrained than would be usual in the circumstances.

Led on by her burning interest I told her many things I might much better have kept to myself; not only accounts of his work and his household and any new friends in our old circle, but we had all been amazed to see a sense of responsibility develop in Julian in answer to his new wife’s dependence on him.  With this had come a certain thoughtfulness in small attentions, which, I saw too late, Anne must always have missed in him.  She was so much more competent in the smaller achievements of life than he that it had been wisdom to leave them to her; and Anne had often traveled alone and attended to the luggage, when now Rose was personally conducted like a young empress.  The explanation was simple enough:  Anne had the ability to do it, and the other had not.  Even if I had stopped to think, I might fairly have supposed that Anne would find some flattery in the contrast.  I should have been wrong.

Almost the first thing she asked me was whether he came home to luncheon.  In old times, though his house was only a few blocks from his office, he had always insisted that it took too much time.  Anne had never gained her point with him, though she put some force into the effort.  Now I had to confess he did.

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