“You’re not trying to tell me you’re in love with me?” said he sharply.

“Oh, no—­no, indeed,” she protested in haste, alarmed by his overwhelming manner.  “I’m not trying to deceive you in any way.”

“Never do,” said he.  “It’s the one thing I can’t stand.”

“But I thought—­it seemed to me—­” she persisted, “that perhaps if we tried to—­to care for each other, we’d maybe get to—­to caring—­more or less.  Don’t you think so?”

“Perhaps,” was his careless reply.  He added, “But I, for one, am well content with things as they are.  I confess I don’t look back with any satisfaction on those months when I was making an ass of myself about you.  I was ruining my career.  Now I’m happy, and everything is going fine in my business.  No experiments, if you please.”  He shook his head, looking at her with smiling raillery.  “It might turn out that I’d care for you in the same crazy way again, and that you didn’t like it.  Again you might get excited about me and I’d remain calm about you.  That would give me a handsome revenge, but I’m not looking for revenge.”

He finished his toilet, she standing quiet and thoughtful in an attitude of unconscious grace.

“No, my dear,” resumed he, as he prepared to descend for dinner, “let’s have a peaceful, cheerful married life, with no crazy excitements.  Let’s hang on to what we’ve got, and take no unnecessary risks.”  He patted her on the shoulder.  “Isn’t that sensible?”

She looked at him with serious, appealing eyes.  “You are sure you aren’t unhappy?”

It was amusing to him—­though he concealed it—­to see how tenaciously her feminine egotism held to the idea that she was the important person.  And, when women of experience thus deluded themselves, it was not at all strange that this girl should be unable to grasp the essential truth as to the relations of men and women—­that, while a woman who makes her sex her profession must give to a man, to some man, a dominant place in her life, a man need give a woman—­at least, any one woman—­little or no place.  But he would not wantonly wound her harmless vanity.  “Don’t worry about me, please,” said he in the kindest, friendliest way.  “I am telling you the truth.”

And they descended to the dining room.  Usually he was preoccupied and she did most of the talking—­not a difficult matter for her, as she was one of those who by nature have much to say, who talk on and on, giving lively, pleasant recitals of commonplace daily happenings.  That evening it was her turn to be abstracted, or, at least, silent.  He talked volubly, torrentially, like a man of teeming mind in the highest spirits.  And he was in high spirits.  The Galloway enterprise had developed into a huge success; also, it did not lessen his sense of the pleasantness of life to have learned that his wife was feeling about as well disposed toward him as he cared to have her feel, had come round to that state of mind which he, as a practical man, wise in the art of life, regarded as ideal for a wife.