The train announcer made loud noises through a megaphone. David rose and looked down in a sudden daze at the pretty young woman who was his wife—to whom he had become but a disappointing means to an end, to whom his heart, though he might thrust it naked and quivering before her eyes, would ever be a sealed book inspiring no interest. His pretty house of love was swaying, falling, and he could not support it.
"And I begin to think," he said queerly, "that we'll always be hopelessly, miserably poor."
Even Shirley could perceive a cryptic quality in that speech.
"What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing that need disturb you. I have no reason," he added grimly, "to believe that it will disturb you."
She eyed him reproachfully and gave a sigh of patience sorely taxed.
"David, I wonder if you never realize that in some of your moods you are very hard to understand."
"Too temperamental, I suppose? Right as always, my dear." He laughed. Men sometimes laugh because they can not weep. But Shirley did not know that. "But I think I can promise you—no more temperament. I'm learning a cure for that. And now I'd better turn you over to Charles. I think that noise means my train is ready."
He took her to the car, kissed her and helped her into the seat and watched her ride away. Then he went back into the station just in time to catch the train.
Shirley found herself perturbed and close to tears; she hardly knew why.