“Perhaps, dear.  I will try to guard against it.”  Wilbur took her hands in his and looked down tenderly into her face.  His own was a little weary.  “Above everything else in life I wish, to make you happy,” he said.

“I am happy, you dear boy.”

“Truly?”

“Yes, truly.  And if something happens which I am nearly sure will happen, I shall be happier still.  It’s a secret, and I mustn’t tell you, but if it does happen, you can’t help agreeing that your wife has been clever and has helped you in your profession.”

“Helped me?  Ah, Selma,” he said, folding her in his arms, “I don’t think you realize how much you are to me.  In this modern world, what with self-consciousness, and shyness and contemporary distaste for fulsome expression, it is difficult to tell adequately those we love how we feel toward them.  You are my darling and my inspiration.  The sun rises and sets with you, and unless you were happy, I could never be.  Each man in this puzzling world must live according to his own lights, and I, according to mine, am trying to make the most of myself, consistent with self-respect and avoidance of the low human aims and time-serving methods upon which our new civilization is supposed to frown.  If I am neglecting my lawful opportunities, if I am failing to see wisely and correctly, I shall be grateful for counsel.  Ah, Selma, for your sake, even more than for my own, I grieve that we have no children.  A baby’s hands would, I fancy, be the best of counsellors and enlighteners.”

“If children had come at first, it would have been very nice.  But now—­now I think they might stand in the way of my being of help to you.  And I am so anxious to help you, Wilbur.”

As a result of this conversation Littleton devoted himself more assiduously than ever to his work.  He was eager to increase his earnings so that his income should not be curtailed by his decision to avoid further ventures in the stock-market.  He was troubled in soul, for Selma’s accusation that he was visionary haunted him.  Could it be that he was too scrupulous, too uncompromising, and lacked proper enterprise?  Self-scrutiny failed to convince him that this was so, yet left a lurking doubt which was harassing.  His clear mind was too modest to believe in its own infallibility, for he was psychologist enough to understand that no one can be absolutely sure that his perspective of life is accurate.  Possibly he was sacrificing his wife’s legitimate aspirations to too rigid canons of behavior, and to an unconscious lack of initiative.  On the other hand, as a positive character, he believed that he saw clearly, and he could not avoid the reflection that, if this was the case, he and Selma were drifting apart—­the more bitter alternative of the two, and a condition which, if perpetuated, would involve the destruction of the scheme of matrimonial happiness, the ideal communion of two sympathetic souls, in which he was living as a proud partner.  Apparently he was in one of two predicaments; either he was self deceived, which was abhorrent to him as a thoughtful grappler with the eternal mysteries, or he had misinterpreted the character of the woman whose transcendent quality was a dearer faith to him than the integrity of his own manhood.