“Hungry?” he called to her, boyishly.  His voice reassured her.  It was comradely.  There was nothing in it that menaced her security. ...The sleep and the rest had bettered her.  She was less tense, more calmly resigned to events.  She had marshaled her will; had set it to bear her up and to compel her to carry on bravely and without hysteria the part of a wife.

“I am hungry,” she said, and presently she appeared in the door, stood there a moment, and then walked across the room to Bonbright.  “Thank you,” she said, simply, and he understood.

“You don’t mind being poor for a while?” he asked.

“I’ve always been poor,” she said, with something that approached her old smile.

“Because,” he said, “we are poor.  I am going to earn about thirty dollars a week.  So, you see, we can’t afford to live here.  We’ve got to find a little house or flat. ...”

“Let’s begin,” she cried.  It was not the delight of a woman at the thought of hunting for her first home, but the idea of having something to do, of escaping from these rooms.  “Let’s go right out to look.”

“First,” he said, with pretended severity, “we eat.”

So they went down to the dining room, and after they had eaten they inaugurated their house hunting.  Perhaps Providence intervened at this difficult moment to give them occupation.  If so, Providence acted with amazing wisdom and kindness.

Ruth found an interest in the search.  She forgot.  Her mind was taken from morbid breedings as they climbed stairs and explored rooms and questioned agents.  Bonbright was very happy—­happier because he was openly and without shame adapting his circumstances to his purse. ...  They found a tiny flat, to be had for a fourth of their income.  Ruth said that was the highest proportion of their earnings it was safe to pay for rent, and Bonbright marveled at her wisdom in such matters. ...

Then there were the furnishings to select.  Bonbright left the selection and the chaffering wholly to Ruth—­and she enjoyed it.  The business rested, refreshed, stimulated her.  It pushed her fears into the dim background and brought again to the light of day her old self that Bonbright loved.  More than once she turned the light of her famous grin upon him or upon some thrice lucky salesman.

But the end was reached at last; everything was done that could be done, and there was nothing to do but to return to the hotel.  Ruth did her best to keep up her spirits, but by every block that they approached the hotel, by so much her lightness vanished, by so much her apprehension, her heartache, the black disappointment of the failure of her great plan, returned.

Bonbright saw the change and it grieved him—­it strengthened the determination he had made.  When they reached their rooms he drew her over to the sofa.

“Let’s sit here together, dear,” he said.  “We haven’t had a decent talk, and there are a heap of things to talk about, aren’t there?”