Littleton spoke with a tender plaintiveness which betrayed that in his secret soul he was less confident on this score than his words declared, or than he himself supposed.  “Of course,” he added, earnestly, “I shall hope that it will not make much difference.  My business is slowly, but steadily, improving, and I am doing more this year than last.  I am bending all my energies on my plans for Wetmore College.  If I win in that competition, I shall make a reputation and a respectable commission.”

“You have been on those plans three months.”

“Yes, and shall not finish them for another two.  I wish to do my best work, and I shall be glad not to hear quotations of the ticker in my brain.  You desire me to be thorough, surely, Selma mia?”

“Oh, yes.  Only, you know people very often spoil things by pottering over them.”

“I never potter.  I reject because I am dissatisfied rather than offer a design which does not please me, but I do not waste my time.”

“Call it over-conscientiousness then.  I wish you to do your best work, of course, but one can’t expect to do best work invariably.  Everything was going so nicely that you must perceive it will be inconvenient to have to economize as we did before.”

Littleton looked at his wife with a glance of loving distress.  “You wouldn’t really care a button.  I know you wouldn’t, Selma,” he said, stoutly.

“Of course not, if it were necessary,” she answered.  “Only I don’t wish to do so unless it is necessary.  I am not controverting your decision about the stocks, though I think your imagination, as you say, is to blame.  I would rather cut my right hand off than persuade you to act contrary to your conscience.  But it is inconvenient, Wilbur, you must admit, to give up the things we have become accustomed to.”

“We shall be able to keep the horse.  I am certain of that.”

“I wish you to see my side of it.  Say that you do,” she said, with shrill intensity.

“It is because I do see it that I am troubled, Selma.  For myself I am no happier now than I was when we lived more simply.  I can’t believe that you will really find it a hardship to deny yourself such extravagances as our theatre party last week.  Being a man,” he added, after a pause, “I suppose I may not appreciate how important and seductive some of these social observances appear to a woman, and heaven knows my chief wish in life is to do everything in my power to make you happy.  You must be aware of that, dearest.  I delight to work hard for your sake.  But it seems almost ludicrous to be talking of social interests to you, of all women.  Why, at the time we were married, I feared that you would cut yourself off from reasonable pleasures on account of your dislike of everything frivolous.  I remember I encouraged you not to take too ascetic a view of such things.  So I am bound to believe that your side is my side—­that we both will find true happiness in not attempting to compete with people whose tastes are not our tastes, and whose aims are not our aims.”