“Well, it’s not exactly the start I’d been thinking of,” replied he, reluctantly but tentatively.

It is not in human nature to refuse to press an offered advantage.  Said Del:  “Can’t we close up most of the house—­use only five or six rooms on the ground floor?  And Mrs. Dorsey’s gardener and his helpers will be there.  All we have to do is to see that they’ve not neglected the grounds.”  She was once more all belief and enthusiasm.  “It seemed to me, taking that place was most economical, and so comfortable.  Really, Dory, I didn’t accept without thinking.”

Dory was debating with himself:  To take that house—­it was one of those trifles that are anything but trifles—­like the slight but crucial motion at the crossroads in choosing the road to the left instead of the road to the right.  Not to take the house—­Del would feel humiliated, reasoned he, would think him unreasonably small, would chafe under the restraint their limited means put upon them, whereas, if he left the question of living on their income entirely to her good sense, she would not care about the deprivations, would regard them as self-imposed.

“Of course, if you don’t like it, Dory,” she now said, “I suppose Mrs. Dorsey will let me off.  But I’m sure you’d be delighted, once we got settled.  The house is so attractive—­at least, I think I can make it attractive by packing away her showy stuff and rearranging the furniture.  And the grounds—­Dory, I don’t see how you can object!”

Dory gave a shrug and a smile.  “Well, go ahead.  We’ll scramble through somehow.”  He shook his head at her in good-humored warning.  “Only, please don’t forget what’s coming at the end of your brief year of grandeur.”

Adelaide checked the reply that was all but out.  She hastily reflected that it might not be wise to let him know, just then, that Mrs. Dorsey had said they could have the house for two years, probably for three, perhaps for five.  Instead, she said, “It isn’t the expense, after all, that disturbs you, is it?”

He smiled confession.  “No.”

“I know it’s snobbish of me to long for finery so much that I’m even willing to live in another person’s and show off in it,” she sighed.  “But—­I’m learning gradually.”

He colored.  Unconsciously she had put into her tone—­and this not for the first time, by any means—­a suggestion that there wasn’t the slightest danger of his wearying of waiting, that she could safely take her time in getting round to sensible ideas and to falling in love with him.  His eyes had the look of the veiled amusement that deliberately shows through, as he said, “That’s good.  I’ll try to be patient.”