He laughed—­a quiet, amused laugh, different from any she had ever heard from him.  Evidently, Joshua Craig in intimacy was still another person from the several Joshua Craigs she already knew.  “And,” said he, in explanation of his laughter, “I thought you married me because I had political prospects.  I fancied you had real ambition....I might have known!  According to the people of your set, to be in that set is to have achieved the summit of earthly ambition—­to dress, to roll about in carriages, to go from one fussy house to another, from one showy entertainment to another, to eat stupid dinners, and caper or match picture cards afterward, to grin and chatter, to do nothing useful or even interesting—­” He laughed again, one of his old-time, boisterous outbursts.  But it seemed to her to fit in, to be the laughter of mountain and forest and infinity of space at her and her silly friends.  “And you picture me taking permanent part in that show, or toiling to find you the money to do it with.  Me! ...  Merely because I’ve been, for a moment, somewhat bedazzled by its cheap glitter.”

Margaret felt that he had torn off the mask and had revealed his true self.  But greater than her interest in this new personality was her anger at having been deceived—­self-deceived.  “You asked me how I’d like to live,” cried she, color high and eyes filled with tears of rage.  “I answered your question, and you grow insulting.”

“I’m doing the best I know how,” said he.

After a moment she got herself under control.  “Then,” asked she, “what have you to propose?”

“I can’t tell you just now,” replied he, and his manner was most disquieting.  “To-morrow—­or next day.”

“Don’t you think I’m right about it being humiliating for us to go back to Washington and live poorly?”

“Undoubtedly.  I’ve felt that from the beginning.”

“Then you agree with me?”

“Not altogether,” said he.  And there was a quiet sternness in his smile, in his gentle tone, that increased her alarms.  “I’ve been hoping, rather,” continued he, “that you’d take an interest in my career.”

“I do,” cried she.

“Not in my career,” replied he, those powerful, hewn features of his sad and bitter.  “In your own—­in a career in which I’d become as contemptible as the rest of the men you know—­a poor thing like Grant Arkwright.  Worse, for I’d do very badly what he has learned to do well.”

“To be a well-bred, well-mannered gentleman is no small achievement,” said she with a sweetness that was designed to turn to gall after it reached him.

He surveyed her tranquilly.  She remembered that look; it was the same he had had the morning he met her at the Waldorf elevator and took her away and married her.  She knew that the crisis had come and that he was ready.  And she?  Never had she felt less capable, less resolute.

“I’ve been doing a good deal of thinking—­thinking about us—­these last few days—­since I inflicted that scratch on you,” said he.  “Among other things, I’ve concluded you know as little about what constitutes a real gentleman as I do; also, that you have no idea what it is in you that makes you a lady—­so far as you are one.”