“Howard,” she cried, brushing his ashes from the table, “how can you be so untidy when you are so good-looking dressed up?  I really believe you’re getting fat.  And there,” she added, critically touching a place on the top of his head, “is a bald spot!”

“Anything else?” he murmured, with his eyes still on the sheet.

“Lots,” answered Honora, pulling down the newspaper from before his face.  “For one thing, I’m not going to allow you to be a bear any more.  I don’t mean a Stock Exchange bear, but a domestic bear—­which is much worse.  You’ve got to notice me once in a while.  If you don’t, I’ll get another husband.  That’s what women do in these days, you know, when the one they have doesn’t take the trouble to make himself sufficiently agreeable.  I’m sure I could get another one quite easily,” she declared.

He looked up at her as she stood facing him in the lamplight before the fire, and was forced to admit to himself that the boast was not wholly idle.  A smile was on her lips, her eyes gleamed with health; her furs —­of silver fox—­were thrown back, the crimson roses pinned on her mauve afternoon gown matched the glow in her cheeks, while her hair mingled with the dusky shadows.  Howard Spence experienced one of those startling, illuminating moments which come on occasions to the busy and self-absorbed husbands of his nation.  Psychologists have a name for such a phenomenon.  Ten minutes before, so far as his thoughts were concerned, she had not existed, and suddenly she had become a possession which he had not, in truth, sufficiently prized.  Absurd though it was, the possibility which she had suggested aroused in him a slight uneasiness.

“You are a deuced good-looking woman, I’ll say that for you, Honora,” he admitted.

“Thanks,” she answered, mockingly, and put her hands behind her back.  “If I had only known you were going to settle down in Rivington and get fat and bald and wear dressing gowns and be a bear, I never should have married you—­never, never, never!  Oh, how young and simple and foolish I was!  And the magnificent way you talked about New York, and intimated that you were going to conquer the world.  I believed you.  Wasn’t I a little idiot not—­to know that you’d make for a place like this and dig a hole and stay in it, and let the world go hang?”

He laughed, though it was a poor attempt.  And she read in his eyes, which had not left her face, that he was more or less disturbed.

“I treat you pretty well, don’t I, Honora?” he asked.  There was an amorous, apologetic note in his voice that amused her, and reminded her of the honeymoon.  “I give you all the money you want or rather—­you take it,—­and I don’t kick up a row, except when the market goes to pieces—­”

“When you act as though we’d have to live in Harlem—­which couldn’t be much worse,” she interrupted.  “And you stay in town all day and have no end of fun making money,—­for you like to make money, and expect me to amuse myself the best part of my life with a lot of women who don’t know enough to keep thin.”