"I've had nothing to eat," said he as they came out of the parsonage.

"Nor I," said she.

"We'll go to Delmonico's," said he, and hailed a passing taxi.

On the way, he sitting in one corner explained to her, shrunk into the
other corner: "I can confess now that I married you under false
pretenses. I am not prosperous, as I used to be. To be brief and plain,
I'm down and out, professionally."

She did not move. Apparently she did not change expression. Yet he,
speaking half banteringly, felt some frightful catastrophe within her.
"You are--poor?" she said in her usual quiet way.

"_We_ are poor," corrected he. "I have at present only a thousand dollars
a month--a little more, but not enough to talk about."

She did not move or change expression. Yet he felt that her heart, her
blood were going on again.

"Are you--angry?" he asked.

"A thousand dollars a month seems an awful lot of money to me," she
said.

"It's nothing--nothing to what we'll soon have. Trust me." And back into
his eyes flashed their former look. "I've been sick. I'm well again. I
shall get what I want. If you want anything, you've only to ask for it.
I'll get it. I know how. . . . I don't prey, myself--I've no fancy for