Together they washed up the dishes, then Robert hung the dish-towel out of the window to dry, and took off his apron.
In the studio was an open fire, the single extravagance which the Carrolls allowed themselves. Perhaps it was not so extravagant after all, since it saved gas, and Robert picked up most of the wood in his daily walks along the lake shore.
"Let's sit on the rug," said Katherine, and they curled up like two children before the fire. Robert rested his head upon his elbow, and looked up contentedly into her face. The sweetness of it was half hidden, half revealed, by the dancing firelight, but there were lines around the mouth, and faint marks of worry on the forehead. Yet, it was a patient face—one to teach a man strength and kindliness.
The hand that wore the wedding ring was thin, so thin that the ring slipped when she moved her fingers. He touched it tenderly.
"Dear, are you sorry?"
"Sorry! For what?"
"For all you left behind to marry a poor artist."
"We leave nothing behind when we gain happiness. Don't you think I'd rather be here to-night with you, than to have the money without you?"
Katherine's father had proved himself the equal if not the superior of any stern parent in fiction. A stormy scene followed the announcement of her determination to marry the man of her own choice, rather than his, so they had slipped away to Milwaukee—that haven of the fond and foolish—and set up housekeeping immediately on their return.