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 of her husband than she had of her lover. It was never so easy for him to arrange a morning canter. It was, never so certain that she could get him out to the links or away on the yacht exactly when she wanted him. A point was presently reached where her dissatisfaction broke out in petulant protest.

"But, my dear!" he reminded her with wide, surprised eyes. "My dear! We're married now."

"That's exactly it, I suppose," she retorted bitterly.

"But my job—" he began to argue, and she cut him off to demand satirically.

"Did I marry a man, or did I marry a business?"

He was hurt and perplexed and afraid to try to carry forward the argument. Besides, there was a reason now why he must not argue with her or get her excited. But he still had ideas that refused to stay battened below decks in his mind.

"Fay," he began one day, with a tender light in his eye, "I want my son born in my own house."

"Our son, I suppose you mean," corrected Fay with a soft, averted glance and a blush, for the idea, in vital and inevitable form, was still new to her.

"Our son," he smiled, acknowledging the cor-