"You are working too hard, dear," she remonstrated. "You must relax a little when you are away from the office, or you'll have—oh, brain-fag, or nervous prostration, or some such dreadful thing."
"Well, I'll try to put the office out of my head for a little while," was the obedient answer, which gave the woman the chance she desired.
"But you must do it for your own sake—not mine, you know. You see, Aunt Emma told me that she had been lecturing you a bit—said you ought to pay me more attention, and all that sort of thing."
"Yes, and so I shall; but I'm pressed to death just now—After a bit—"
"You are so different!" Cicily said, almost timidly, as his voice trailed into silence. "Sometimes, I think—I fear—" Her voice, in turn, died.
For the moment, the husband was moved to a sudden tenderness. He spoke softly, earnestly, leaning toward her.
"Cicily, you can't realize what a pleasure it is to a fellow, when he is pounding away downtown, to stop for a second and think of his wife at home waiting for him—that dear girl who loves him—the darling one far away from all the turmoil of the sordid fight."
The rhapsody, although genuine enough, was not satisfying to the wife. The limit of time to a "second" was unfortunate. There was distinct irony in her tone as she answered with a question:
"And the farther away the home, the greater the pleasure, doubtless?"