and our love was dead, to the most poignant memories of our
engagement days. But its central point was Max's detached insistence
that we make marriage over into a purely utilitarian affair.

"Man needs the decencies of a home," he said over and over. "It
doesn't do a fellow any good with a firm like mine to have them know
he can't manage his affairs. And my firm is the kind of firm I want
to work for. This next year is important; and if I spend it dragging
through a nasty divorce business, knowing that everybody knows, I'll
be about thirty per cent efficient. I'm willing to admit that
marriage--even a frost like ours--is useful. Will you?"

I had to. My choice rested between going home, where there were two
younger sisters, or leaving the baby somewhere and striking out for
myself.

"It seems to me," said Max, taking out his pencil, "that if two
reasonably clever people can put their best brain power and eight
hours a day into a home, it might amount to something sometime. The
thing resolves itself into a choice between the things we can do
without and the things we can't. We'll list them. We can't do
without three meals and a roof; but there must be something."

"You can certainly give up silk socks and cigarettes," I said; and,
surprisingly, on this old sore point between us Max agreed.

"You can give up silk stockings, then," he said, and put them down.
Silk socks and silk stockings! Out of all possible economies, they
were the only things that we could think of. Finally--