All of this confused him at first, and it had been so long since he had dealt with theories that it was some time before the chaos cleared, some time before the welter of new thought took shape in his mind.  But it made him humble, receptive, teachable, it made him more kindly and more gentle.  He began a mental stock-taking; he began to examine into the lives about him.

Myra was there—­the new Myra, a Myra with daily less to do in that office, and with more and more time to think.  From her heart was lifted the hard hand of circumstance, releasing a tenderness and yearning which flooded her brain.  It was a tragic time for her.  She knew now that her services were nearly at an end, and that she must go her own way.  She would not be near Joe any longer—­she would not have the heart’s ease of his presence—­she could no longer brood over him and protect him.

It seemed to her that she could not bear the future.  Her love for Joe rose and overwhelmed her.  She became self-conscious before him, paled when he spoke to her, and when he was away her longing for him was insupportable.  She wanted him now—­all her life cried out for him—­all the woman in her went out to mate with this man.  The same passion that had drawn her from the country to his side now swayed and mastered her.

“Joe!  Joe!” her soul cried, “take me now!  This is too much for me to bear!”

And more and more the thought of his health oppressed her.  If she only had the power to take him to her breast, draw him close in her arms, mother him, heal him, smooth the wrinkles, kiss the droop of the big lips, and pour her warm and infinite love into his heart.  That surely must save him—­love surely would save this man.

She began to scheme and dream—­to plot ways of getting about him, of routing him out, of tearing him from his rut.

And then one afternoon at two she risked her all.  It was an opportune time.  Joe—­wonder of wonders—­was doing nothing, but sitting back like a gray wreck, with his feet crossed on his desk, and a vile cigar in his mouth.  It was the first cigar in ages, and he puffed on it and brooded dreamily.

Myra came over, sat down beside him, and spoke airily.

“Hello, Joe!”

“Why, hello, Myra!” he cried.  “What d’ye mean by helloing me?”

“I’m glad to meet you.”

“Same to you.”

“I’ve come back from the country, Joe.”

“So I see.”

“Do you?”

“Haven’t I eyes?”

“Well,” she said, flushed, bending forward, “Joe Blaine, where have your eyes been these five weeks?”

“They were on strike!” he said, promptly.

“Well,” she said, “the strike’s over!”

They laughed together as they had not since far and far in the beginning of things.

Joe leaned near.

“Myra,” he said, “I need an airing.  Take me out and shake me out!  Oh!” he stretched his arms above his head.  “Have I been hibernating and is it springtime again?”