"That's so. Keep out of it. It's a rich man's game. And at that, there's no fun in it unless you risk more than you can afford to lose. Well, let's not talk shop. You're an artist, Mr. Corthell. What do you think of our house?"
Later on when they had said good-by to Corthell, and when Jadwin was making the rounds of the library, art gallery, and drawing-rooms—a nightly task which he never would intrust to the servants—turning down the lights and testing the window fastenings, his wife said:
"And now you are out of it—for good."
"I don't own a grain of wheat," he assured her. "I've got to be out of it."
The next day he went down town for only two or three hours in the afternoon. But he did not go near the Board of Trade building. He talked over a few business matters with the manager of his real estate office, wrote an unimportant letter or two, signed a few orders, was back at home by five o'clock, and in the evening took Laura, Page, and Landry Court to the theatre.
After breakfast the next morning, when he had read his paper, he got up, and, thrusting his hands in his pockets, looked across the table at his wife.
"Well," he said. "Now what'll we do?"
She put down at once the letter she was reading.
"Would you like to drive in the park?" she suggested. "It is a beautiful morning."
"M—m—yes," he answered slowly. "All right. Let's drive in the park."