“Yes,” he said, “I believe all that.  I believe a good deal more than that.”  There was a little silence, and then suddenly he reached for her hand, held it tight and smiled into the fire in a twitching sort of way.  “I haven’t been quite as blind as you think.  I’ve seen a good deal of what you were doing.  But—­” he frowned—­“I’m older than you are.  I know this job of mine clear through—­way back to those dreams you spoke of.  I’ve had some hard mean tussles about it—­lately—­and that’s my only excuse for acting like a damn fool as I did—­the other day.  No use in talking of that any more—­or of—­Amy either.  She’s—­dead.”

“Joe!” Ethel whispered.  Tears came in her eyes.  He went steadily on: 

“She had some fine points—­you’ll never know.  There were things we needn’t talk about now.  But you’ve made me see things, too.  I don’t think she’ll be in the way any more—­I think we’ll be able to speak of her.”

“Of course!  We must!  I want to, dear!” Ethel’s voice was shaking.

“Not now.”  With an effort he rose.  “There’s something else to worry about.  You don’t quite know me yet, you see.”

“What do you mean?” She had risen, too, and caught his arm.  “You’re not well, Joe!  You’re white as a sheet!” He laughed a little.

“I’m not quite right.  Something wrong in here, I guess.”  He pressed one hand to the base of his brain and scowled as though it hurt him.  “Nothing serious, probably.  But before it goes too far, I want you to know that when I get well I’m going to have a try at all that—­the work you spoke of.  I’m going to try—­but I may be too late!  I may be older than you think!” The tone of his voice was sharp and strained.  “I don’t know,” he said.  “The doctor may.  About him—­that’s another point!  It’s a nerve specialist we need!  Telephone your doctor and have him send one here tonight!  I’m sorry, Ethel—­damnably!”

CHAPTER XXVII

She got him to bed.  The specialist came, and when he had examined Joe he had a talk with Ethel that left her very frightened.  After that came days and nights, when Joe, as, though in delirium, said things in a jumble which revealed to her the inner chaos he had gone through in the last few weeks.  He talked of Amy loyally, even pleading for her at times, excusing her.  And he talked of Ethel in many moods.  Now he was angry at her interference; again he saw her side of it, and then his love for her would rise.  More often still, he talked about work, and here again the struggle went on.  Money, money, money—­figures, calculations, schemes and rivals, heavy chances.  But suddenly all this was gone, and in a pitiful anger at his own futility he would storm at himself for not being able to put on paper his early dreams.