Finally I thought of dropping entirely out of the social, religious and charitable activities of the town, investing in a typewriter and subscribing to a correspondence-school course in stenography.  I could at least help Carl prepare his lectures and relieve him of the burden of letter writing, thus giving him more time for book reviewing and other potboiling jobs, which were not only delaying his own book but making him burn the candle at both ends in the strenuous effort to make both ends meet.

I knew Carl would object, but I had not expected such an outburst of profane rage as followed my announcement.  The poor boy was dreadfully tired, and for months, like the thoroughbred he was, he had repressed his true feelings under a quiet, quizzical smile.

“My heavens!  What next?” he cried, jumping up and pacing the floor.  “Haven’t you already given up everything you were accustomed to—­every innocent pleasure you deserve—­every wholesome diversion you actually need in this God-forsaken, monotonous hole?  Haven’t I already dragged you down—­you, a lovely, fine-grained, highly evolved woman—­down to the position of a servant in my house?  And now, on top of all this—­No, by God!  I won’t have it!  I tell you I won’t have it!”

It may be a shocking confession, but I loved him for that wicked oath.  He looked so splendid—­all fire and furious determination, as when he used to rush up to the net in the deciding game of a tennis match, cool and quick as lightning.

“You are right, Carl dear,” I said, kissing his profane lips; for I had learned long since never to argue with him.  “I am too good to be a mere household drudge.  It’s an economic waste of superior ability.  That’s why I am going to be your secretary and save you time and money enough to get and keep a competent maid.”

“But I tell you—­”

“I know, dear; but what are we going to do about it?  We can’t go on this way.  They’ve got us down—­are we going to let them keep us down?  Look into the future!  Look at poor old Professor Culberson.  Look at half of the older members of the Faculty!  They have ceased to grow; their usefulness is over; they are all gone to seed—­because they hadn’t the courage or the cash to develop anything but their characters!”

Carl looked thoughtful.  He had gained an idea for his book and, like a true scholar, forgot for the moment our personal situation.

“Really, you know,” he mused, “does it pay Society to reward its individuals in inverse ratio to their usefulness?” He took out his pocket notebook and wrote:  “Society itself suffers for rewarding that low order of cunning called business sense with the ultimate control of all other useful talents.”  He closed his notebook and smiled.

“And yet they call the present economic order safe and sane!  And all of us who throw the searchlight of truth on it—­dangerous theorists!  Can you beat it?”

“Well,” I rejoined, not being a scholar, “there’s nothing dangerous about my theory.  Instead of your stenographer becoming your wife, your wife becomes your stenographer—­far safer and saner than the usual order.  Men are much more apt to fall in love with lively little typewriters than with fat, flabby wives.”