arms again. She was glad to put her head down--didn't want to look at
his face; she knew that there was a smile there along with the tears.

"And you thought I was worrying about it," he persisted, "and that I'd
be unhappy because I was beaten?" He patted her shoulder consolingly
with a big hand. "But that's all in the day's work, child. I'm beaten
somewhere nearly as often as I win. And really, down inside, leaving out
a little superficial pleasure, I don't care a damn whether I win or
lose. A man couldn't be any good as a lawyer, if he did care, any more
than a surgeon could be any good if he did. You've got to keep a cold
mind or you can't do your best work. And if you've done your best work,
there's nothing to care about. I honestly haven't thought about the
thing once from that day to this. Don't you see how it is?"

He couldn't see how it was, that was plain enough. What he very
reasonably expected was that after so lucid an explanation, she would
turn her wet face up to his, with her old wide smile on it. But that was
not what happened at all. Instead, she just went limp in his arms, and
the sobs that shook her seemed to be meeting no resistance whatever. It
wasn't like her to work herself up in that way over trifles, either;
yet, surely a trifle was all this could be called--a laughable mistake
he couldn't help loving her for, or a touching demonstration of
affection that he couldn't help smiling at. Either way you took it, it
was nothing to make a scene about. Where was her sense of humor? That
was the thing to do--get her quiet first, and then persuade her to laugh
at the whole affair with him.

He was saved from carrying out this program by the fact that Rose, of
her own accord, anticipated him. At least she controlled, rather
suddenly, her sobs, sat up, wiped her eyes and, after a fashion, smiled.