The Adjuster

At five o'clock, the dimly lit, egg-shaped room at the Ritz begins to hum with a soft melody—the gentle clink of one sugar lump, then two, falling into cups, and the delicate chime of shiny teapots and cream jugs as they meet gracefully on a silver tray. Some people treasure this amber hour above all others, for now the pale, pleasant work of the fashionable women who frequent the Ritz is done—only the singing, decorative part of the day remains.

Scanning the slightly raised horseshoe balcony one spring afternoon, you might have seen young Mrs. Alphonse Karr and young Mrs. Charles Hemple at a table for two. The one in the striking dress was Mrs. Hemple—that black immaculate gown with large buttons and a hint of a red cape at the shoulders, a style that playfully echoed a French cardinal's robes, as intended when it was designed on the Rue de la Paix. Mrs. Karr and Mrs. Hemple were twenty-three years old, and their detractors said they had done quite well for themselves. Either could have had a limousine waiting at the hotel door, but both preferred to walk home (up Park Avenue) through the April twilight.

Luella Hemple was tall, with the kind of flaxen hair that English country girls should have but rarely do. Her skin glowed, needing no enhancement, but following the fashion of the day—this was 1920—she had powdered over her natural roses and drawn a new mouth and new eyebrows, which were no more successful than such meddling usually is. (This is said with the wisdom of 1925; back then, her effect was exactly right.)

"I've been married three years," she said, stubbing out a cigarette in a squeezed lemon. "The baby will be two years old tomorrow. I must remember to get—" She took a gold pencil from her case and wrote "Candles" and "Party poppers" on an ivory date-pad. Then, looking up, she caught Mrs. Karr's eye and hesitated.

"Shall I tell you something outrageous?"

"Try," said Mrs. Karr cheerfully.

"Even my baby bores me. That sounds unnatural, Ede, but it's true. He doesn't begin to fill my life. I love him with all my heart, but when I have to take care of him for an afternoon, I get so nervous I want to scream. After two hours, I start praying for the moment the nurse walks in the door."

Having made this confession, Luella breathed quickly and looked closely at her friend. She didn't really feel unnatural at all; this was simply the truth. There couldn't be anything vicious in the truth.

"It may be because you don't love Charles," ventured Mrs. Karr, unmoved.

"But I do! I hope I haven't given you that impression. It's the very fact that I do love Charles that complicates matters. I cried myself to sleep last night because I know we're drifting slowly but surely toward a divorce. It's the baby that keeps us together."

Ede Karr, married five years, looked at her critically to see if this was an act, but Luella's lovely eyes were grave and sad.

"And what is the trouble?" Ede inquired.

"It's plural," said Luella, frowning. "First, there's food. I'm a terrible housekeeper, and I have no intention of becoming a good one. I hate ordering groceries, and I hate going into the kitchen to check if the icebox is clean, and I hate pretending to the servants that I'm interested in their work when I never want to hear about food until it reaches the table. You see, I never learned to cook, so a kitchen is about as interesting to me as a boiler-room. It's simply a machine I don't understand. It's easy to say, 'Go to cooking school,' like they do in books—but, Ede, in real life, does anyone ever turn into a model housewife unless they have to?"

"Go on," said Ede noncommittally. "Tell me more."

"Well, as a result, the house is always in chaos. The servants quit every week. If they're young and incompetent, I can't train them, so we have to let them go. If they're experienced, they hate a house where the lady isn't intensely interested in the price of asparagus. So they leave—and half the time we eat at restaurants and hotels."

"I don't suppose Charles likes that."

"Hates it. In fact, he hates almost everything I like. He's lukewarm about the theater, hates the opera, hates dancing, hates cocktail parties—sometimes I think he hates everything pleasant in the world. I stayed home for a year or so while Chuck was on the way and while I was nursing him, and I didn't mind. But this year I told Charles frankly that I was still young enough to want some fun. Since then, we've been going out whether he wants to or not." She paused, brooding. "I'm so sorry for him I don't know what to do, Ede—but if we stayed home, I'd just be sorry for myself. And to tell you another true thing, I'd rather he be unhappy than me."

Luella wasn't so much stating a case as thinking aloud. She considered herself very fair. Before her marriage, men had always called her "a good sport," and she had tried to carry that fairness into her married life, always seeing Charley's point of view as clearly as her own.

Had she been a pioneer wife, she might have fought alongside her husband. But here in New York there was no fight; they weren't struggling together to achieve some distant peace and leisure—she had more of either than she could use. Luella, like thousands of other young wives in New York, honestly wanted something to do. With a bit more money and less love, she could have taken up horses or casual affairs. With less money, her energy would have been absorbed by hope and effort. But the Charles Hemples were in between—that enormous American class that wanders through Europe each summer, sneering pathetically at other countries' customs because they have none of their own, a class sprung up overnight from parents who might as well have lived two hundred years ago.

The tea hour had turned into the before-dinner hour. Most tables had emptied, leaving the room dotted with isolated voices and distant laughter; in a corner, waiters were already covering tables in white for dinner.

"Charles and I are on each other's nerves," Luella said, her voice ringing in the new silence, and she lowered it quickly. "Little things. He keeps rubbing his face with his hand—all the time, at the table, at the theater, even in bed. It drives me wild, and when such things start getting to you, it's nearly over." She broke off, reached behind her for a light fur, and draped it over her shoulders. "I hope I haven't bored you, Ede. It's on my mind because tonight will decide things. I made a plan for tonight—an interesting engagement, supper after the theater to meet some Russians, singers or dancers or something—and Charles says he won't go. If he doesn't, then I'm going alone. And that's the end."

She put her elbows on the table, bent her eyes into her smooth gloves, and began to cry, stubbornly and quietly. No one nearby could see, but Ede wished Luella had removed her gloves so she could touch her bare hand. The gloves symbolized how hard it was to sympathize with a woman who had been given so much. Ede wanted to say it would all work out, that it wasn't as bad as it seemed, but she said nothing; her only reaction was impatience and distaste.

A waiter stepped up and laid a folded check on the table. Mrs. Karr reached for it.

"No, you mustn't," murmured Luella brokenly. "No, I invited you! I have the money right here."

II

The Hemples' apartment—they owned it—was in one of those impersonal white buildings known by number rather than name. They had furnished it on their honeymoon: big pieces from England, bric-à-brac from Florence, lace and sheer linen curtains from Venice, and glassware of many colors that littered the table when they entertained. Luella enjoyed choosing things on the honeymoon; it gave the trip purpose and kept it from becoming the dreary wandering through big hotels and ruins that such trips often are.

They returned, and life began—on a grand scale. Luella found herself a lady of substance. It sometimes amazed her that the specially created apartment and limousine were hers, just as indisputably as the mortgaged suburban bungalow from the magazine or a last year's car might have been. She was even more amazed when it all began to bore her. But it did.

At seven o'clock, she came in from the April dusk, let herself into the hall, and saw her husband waiting in the living room before an open fire. She entered without a sound, closed the door noiselessly, and stood watching him through the pleasant vista of the small salon. Charles Hemple was in his mid-thirties, with a young, serious face and distinguished iron-gray hair that would be white in ten years. His deep-set, dark-gray eyes and that hair were his most noticeable features—women always found his hair romantic, and most of the time Luella did too.

At that moment, she found herself hating him a little, for she saw him raise his hand and rub his chin and mouth nervously. It gave him an air of distracted abstraction and sometimes obscured his words, so she was always saying "What?" She had mentioned it several times, and he had apologized in a surprised way, but he clearly didn't realize how noticeable and irritating it was, for he kept doing it. Things were so precarious that Luella dreaded bringing up such matters anymore—a careless word might trigger the imminent confrontation.

Luella tossed her gloves and purse abruptly on the table. Hearing the faint sound, her husband looked toward the hall.

"Is that you, dear?"

"Yes, dear."

She came into the living room, walked into his arms, and kissed him tensely. Charles responded with unusual formality, then turned her slowly so she faced the room.

"I've brought someone home to dinner."

She saw then they weren't alone, and her first feeling was relief; the rigid expression softened into a shy, charming smile as she held out her hand.

"This is Doctor Moon—this is my wife."

A man slightly older than her husband, with a round, pale, lined face, came forward to meet her.

"Good evening, Mrs. Hemple," he said. "I hope I'm not interfering with any plans."

"Oh, no," Luella cried quickly. "I'm delighted you're joining us. We're quite alone."

Simultaneously she recalled her engagement for the night and wondered if this was a clumsy trick of Charles's to keep her home. If so, he had chosen his bait badly. This man radiated a tired placidity—from his face, his heavy, leisurely voice, even from his three-year-old suit.

Nevertheless, she excused herself and went to the kitchen to see what was planned for dinner. As usual, they were trying a new pair of servants; lunch had been poorly cooked and served, and she would let them go tomorrow. She hoped Charles would do the firing—she hated getting rid of servants. Sometimes they wept, sometimes they were insolent, but Charles had a way with them, and they were always afraid of a man.

The cooking on the stove, however, had a soothing aroma. Luella gave instructions about which china to use, unlocked a bottle of precious chianti from the buffet, then went to kiss young Chuck good night.

"Has he been good?" she asked as he crawled eagerly into her arms.

"Very good," said the governess. "We went for a long walk in Central Park."

"Well, aren't you a smart boy!" She kissed him ecstatically.

"And he put his foot in the fountain, so we had to come home in a taxi right away and change his little shoe and stocking."

"That's right. Here, wait, Chuck!" Luella unclasped the great yellow beads from her neck and handed them to him. "You mustn't break Mama's beads." She turned to the nurse. "Put them on my dresser, will you, after he's asleep?"

She felt a certain compassion for her son as she left—the small, enclosed life he led, as all children do except in big families. He was a dear little rose, except on days she had to care for him. His face was shaped like hers; sometimes she felt a thrill and made new resolutions about life when his heart beat against her own.

In her pink, lovely bedroom, she confined her attention to her face, washing and restoring it. Doctor Moon didn't deserve a change of dress, and Luella felt oddly tired, though she had done little all day. She returned to the living room, and they went in to dinner.

"Such a nice house, Mrs. Hemple," said Doctor Moon impersonally, "and let me congratulate you on your fine little boy."

"Thanks. Coming from a doctor, that's a nice compliment." She hesitated. "Do you specialize in children?"

"I'm not a specialist at all," he said. "I'm about the last of my kind—a general practitioner."

"The last in New York, anyway," remarked Charles, beginning to rub his face nervously. Luella fixed her eyes on Doctor Moon to avoid looking at Charles. But at his next words, she looked back sharply.

"In fact," he said unexpectedly, "I've invited Doctor Moon here because I wanted you to have a talk with him tonight."

Luella sat up straight. "A talk with me?"

"Doctor Moon's an old friend, and I think he can tell you a few things, Luella, that you ought to know."

"Why—" She tried to laugh but was surprised and annoyed. "I don't see what you mean. There's nothing wrong with me. I don't think I've ever felt better."

Doctor Moon looked at Charles, asking permission. Charles nodded, and his hand went up automatically to his face.

"Your husband has told me a great deal about your unsatisfactory life together," said Doctor Moon, still impersonally. "He wonders if I can help smooth things out."

Luella's face burned. "I have no particular faith in psychoanalysis," she said coldly, "and I hardly think I'm a subject for it."

"Neither do I," replied Doctor Moon, seemingly unaware of the snub. "I have no particular faith in anything but myself. I told you I'm not a specialist or a faddist. I promise nothing."

For a moment, Luella considered leaving the room, but the audacity of the suggestion piqued her curiosity.

"I can't imagine what Charles has told you," she said, controlling herself, "much less why. But I assure you our marriage is entirely between my husband and me. If you have no objections, Doctor Moon, I'd prefer to discuss something less personal."

Doctor Moon nodded heavily and politely, making no further attempt. Dinner proceeded in a defeated silence. Luella was determined to stick to her plans. An hour ago, her independence demanded it, but now some defiant gesture was needed for her self-respect. She would stay in the living room a moment; then, when coffee came, she would excuse herself and dress to go out.

But when they left the dining room, Charles vanished quickly.

"I have a letter to write," he said; "I'll be back in a moment." Before Luella could object, he went down the corridor to his room and shut the door.

Angry and confused, Luella poured the coffee and sank into a corner of the couch, staring at the fire.

"Don't be afraid, Mrs. Hemple," said Doctor Moon suddenly. "This was forced upon me. I'm not acting freely—"

"I'm not afraid of you," she interrupted, but she knew she was lying. She was a little afraid, if only of his dull insensitivity to her distaste.

"Tell me about your trouble," he said naturally, as though she were not free either. He wasn't even looking at her.

The words in Luella's mind were "I'll do no such thing," but what she actually said amazed her, coming out spontaneously.

"Didn't you see him rubbing his face at dinner?" she said desperately. "Are you blind? He's become so irritating that I think I'll go mad."

"I see." Doctor Moon's round face nodded.

"Don't you see I've had enough of home?" Her breasts seemed to struggle for air. "Don't you see how bored I am with keeping house, with the baby—everything feels like it goes on forever? I want excitement; I don't care what form it takes or what I pay, as long as it makes my heart beat."

"I see."

It infuriated Luella that he claimed to understand. Her defiance had reached such a pitch that she preferred no one should understand. She was content to be justified by the passionate sincerity of her desires.

"I've tried to be good, and I'm not going to try anymore. If I'm one of those women who wreck their lives, then I'll do it now. Call me selfish or silly, and you'd be right; but in five minutes I'm leaving this house and beginning to live."

This time Doctor Moon didn't answer but raised his head as if listening to something in the distance.

"You're not going out," he said after a moment, "I'm quite sure you're not."

Luella laughed. "I am going out."

He ignored this. "You see, Mrs. Hemple, your husband isn't well. He's been trying to live your kind of life, and it's been too much for him. When he rubs his mouth—"

Light steps came down the corridor, and the maid, looking frightened, tiptoed in.

"Mrs. Hemple—"

Startled, Luella turned. "Yes?"

"Can I speak to—" Her fear broke through her training. "Mr. Hemple, he's sick! He came into the kitchen and began throwing all the food out of the icebox, and now he's in his room, crying and singing—"

Suddenly Luella heard his voice.

III

Charles Hemple had a nervous collapse. Twenty years of almost uninterrupted toil weighed on him, and the recent tension at home had been too much. His attitude toward his wife was the weak point in an otherwise strong and well-organized career—he was aware of her intense selfishness, but selfishness in women often has an irresistible appeal to men. Luella's selfishness coexisted with a childish beauty, so Charles began to blame himself for situations she had brought about. That unhealthy attitude had sickened his mind.

After the first shock and a momentary pity, Luella grew impatient. She was "a good sport"—she couldn't take advantage of Charles while he was ill. The question of her freedom had to wait until he recovered. Just when she had decided to stop being a wife, she now had to be a nurse. She sat by his bed while he talked about her in his delirium—about their courtship, a friend's warning that he was making a mistake, and his happiness in the early months, then the growing unease as the gap appeared. He had been more aware than she thought.

"Luella!" He would lurch up in bed. "Luella! Where are you?"

"I'm right here, Charles, beside you." She tried to sound cheerful and warm.

"If you want to go, Luella, you'd better go. I don't seem to be enough for you anymore."

She denied this soothingly.

"I've thought it over, Luella, and I can't ruin my health because of you—" Then quickly, passionately: "Don't go, Luella, don't leave me! Promise you won't! I'll do anything you say if you stay."

His humility annoyed her most; he was a reserved man, and she had never guessed his devotion.

"I'm only going for a minute. It's Doctor Moon, your friend. He came to see how you are. He wants to talk to me before he goes."

"You'll come back?"

"In a little while. Lie quiet."

She raised his head and plumped his pillow. A new trained nurse would arrive tomorrow.

In the living room, Doctor Moon waited—his suit more worn in the afternoon light. She disliked him intensely, irrationally blaming him for her misfortune, but he was so deeply interested she couldn't refuse to see him. She hadn't asked him to consult with specialists—a doctor so down at heel...

"Mrs. Hemple." He came forward, holding out his hand; Luella touched it lightly.

"You seem well," he said.

"I am well, thank you."

"I congratulate you on how you've taken hold of things."

"But I haven't taken hold of anything," she said coldly. "I do what I must—"

"That's just it."

Her impatience mounted. "I do what I must, and nothing more," she continued, "and with no good will."

Suddenly she opened up again, as she had the night of the catastrophe—realizing she was becoming intimate with him yet unable to stop.

"The house isn't running," she burst out bitterly. "I had to fire the servants, and now I have a day woman. The baby has a cold, and I've discovered his nurse doesn't know her job—everything is messy and terrible!"

"Would you mind telling me how you found out the nurse didn't know her job?"

"You find out unpleasant things when you're forced to stay home."

He nodded, his weary face moving around the room. "I feel somewhat encouraged," he said slowly. "As I told you, I promise nothing; I only do my best."

Luella looked up, startled. "What do you mean?" she protested. "You've done nothing for me—nothing at all!"

"Nothing much—yet," he said heavily. "It takes time, Mrs. Hemple."

The words were dry and somehow not offensive, but Luella felt he had gone too far. She stood.

"I've met your type before," she said coldly. "You think you're the old family friend. But I don't make friends quickly, and I haven't given you the right to be so personal."

When he had left, Luella went to the kitchen to see if the woman understood about three different dinners—one for Charles, one for the baby, one for herself. With only one servant, it was hard. She must try another agency—this one sounded bored.

To her surprise, she found the cook with coat on, reading a newspaper. "Why, what's the matter, Mrs.—"

"Mrs. Danski."

"What's the matter?"

"I'm afraid I can't stay," said Mrs. Danski. "I'm just a plain cook, not used to invalid's food."

"But I counted on you."

"I'm sorry." She shook her head stubbornly. "I have my own health to think of. They didn't tell me what kind of job it was. And when you asked me to clean out your husband's room, I knew it was beyond me."

"I won't ask you to clean anything," said Luella desperately. "If you just stay until tomorrow. I can't get anyone tonight."

Mrs. Danski smiled politely. "I have my own children to think of." Luella wanted to offer more money, but her temper snapped.

"I've never heard of such selfishness!" she burst out. "To leave me now! You're an old fool!"

"If you pay me for my time, I'll go," said Mrs. Danski calmly.

"I won't pay you unless you stay!"

She immediately regretted it but was too proud to back down.

"You will pay me!"

"Get out!"

"I'll go when I get my money," asserted Mrs. Danski. "I have my children."

Luella stepped forward, and intimidated, Mrs. Danski flounced out.

Luella called the agency, explaining the woman left.

"Can you send someone right away? My husband is sick and the baby's sick—"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hemple; there's no one in the office now. It's after four."

After arguing, she got a promise to call an emergency woman they knew. That was the best until tomorrow.

She called other agencies, but the servant industry had shut down for the day. After giving Charles his medicine, she slipped into the nursery.

"How's baby?" she asked.

"Ninety-nine point one," whispered the nurse, holding the thermometer to the light.

"Is that much?"

"Three-fifths of a degree. Not much for the afternoon. They often run a little fever with a cold."

Luella went to the cot and touched his flushed cheek, thinking how much he resembled the cherub in the Lux advertisement.

She turned to the nurse. "Do you know how to cook?"

"Why—not well."

"Can you do the baby's food tonight? That old fool left, and I can't get anyone."

"Oh, yes, I can."

"Good. I'll try to fix something for Mr. Hemple. Keep your door open to hear the bell for the doctor. Let me know."

So many doctors! There was hardly an hour without one. The specialist and the family physician every morning, the baby doctor—and this afternoon Doctor Moon, placid, persistent, unwelcome. Luella went into the kitchen. She could cook bacon and eggs for herself, but vegetables for Charles were different—they had to simmer, and the stove had so many doors and ovens she couldn't decide. She chose a blue pan, sliced carrots into it, added water, and put it on the stove, trying to remember what to do next. The phone rang—the agency.

"Yes, this is Mrs. Hemple speaking."

"The woman we sent claims you refused to pay her."

"I explained she refused to stay," said Luella hotly. "She broke her agreement, and I felt no obligation—"

"We must see our people are paid," said the agency. "Sorry, but we can't send anyone until this is settled."

"Oh, I'll pay, I'll pay!" she cried.

"If you send the money tomorrow? It's seventy-five cents an hour."

"But tonight?" she exclaimed. "I must have someone tonight."

"It's late; I was going home."

"But I'm Mrs. Charles Hemple! Don't you understand? I'm good for it! I'm the wife of Charles Hemple, of 14 Broadway—"

Simultaneously, she realized that Charles Hemple of 14 Broadway was a helpless invalid—not a reference or refuge anymore. In despair, she hung up.

After ten frantic minutes in the kitchen, she confessed to the baby's nurse, whom she disliked, that she couldn't cook her husband's dinner. The nurse said she had a headache and her hands full, but she grudgingly showed Luella what to do.

Swallowing humiliation, Luella obeyed while the nurse grumbled at the unfamiliar stove. Dinner got started after a fashion. Then it was time for the nurse to bathe Chuck, and Luella sat alone at the kitchen table, listening to the bubbling pots.

"And women do this every day," she thought. "Thousands of women. Cook, take care of sick people—and go out to work too."

But she didn't think of those women as like her, except for having two feet and two hands. She said it as one might say "South Sea Islanders wear nose rings." She was merely slumming in her own home, and she wasn't enjoying it. For her, it was a ridiculous exception.

Suddenly, slow steps approached in the dining room, then the pantry. Fearing Doctor Moon again, she looked up—and saw the nurse coming through the pantry door. Luella thought the nurse would faint too, and she was right: the nurse barely reached the kitchen door when she staggered, clutched the handle, and slid to the floor. Simultaneously, the doorbell rang; Luella gasped with relief—the baby doctor.

"Fainted, that's all," he said, cradling her head. The eyes fluttered. "Yep, just fainted."

"Everybody's sick!" cried Luella with despairing humor. "Everyone's sick but me, doctor."

"This one's not sick," he said. "Heart's normal. She fainted."

After helping the doctor raise the girl to a chair, Luella hurried to the nursery and bent over the baby's bed. She let the side down quietly. The fever seemed gone—the flush had faded. She touched his small cheek.

Suddenly Luella began to scream.

IV

Even after the funeral, Luella couldn't believe she had lost him. She came back to the apartment, walked around the nursery saying his name, then, frightened by grief, sat and stared at his white rocker with the red chicken painted on the side.

"What will become of me now?" she whispered. "Something awful will happen when I realize I'll never see Chuck again!"

She wasn't sure yet. If she waited till twilight, the nurse might still bring him in from his walk. She recalled a tragic confusion in which someone told her Chuck was dead, but if so, why was his room waiting, with his small brush and comb still on the bureau? Why was she here at all?

"Mrs. Hemple."

She looked up. The weary, shabby figure of Doctor Moon stood in the doorway.

"You go away," Luella said dully.

"Your husband needs you."

"I don't care."

Doctor Moon came a little into the room. "I don't think you understand. He's been calling for you. You have no one now except him."

"I hate you," she said.

"If you like. I promised nothing, you know. I do my best. You'll be better when you realize your baby is gone."

Luella sprang up. "My baby isn't dead!" she cried. "You lie! You always lie!" Her eyes met his, catching something brutal and kind that awed her. She lowered her eyes in despair.

"All right," she said wearily. "My baby is gone. What shall I do now?"

"Your husband is much better. All he needs is rest and kindness. But you must go to him and tell him what happened."

"I suppose you think you cured him," she said bitterly.

"Perhaps. He's nearly well."

Nearly well—then the last link holding her home was broken. This part of her life was over; she could cut it off, with its grief, and be free.

"I'll go to him in a minute," Luella said. "Please leave me."

Doctor Moon's shadow melted into the hall.

"I can go away," Luella whispered. "Life has given me back freedom."

But she must not linger, or Life would bind her again. She phoned the porter to bring up her trunk, then began packing the things she had brought into the marriage, even two old dresses from her trousseau—out of style, a little tight—which she threw in. A new life. Charles was well; the baby she had worshipped but who bored her was dead.

When the trunk was packed, she went to the kitchen automatically, told the cook about special meals for Charles and that she was dining out. A small pan used for Chuck's food caught her eye, but she stared unmoved. She checked the icebox—clean. Then she went to Charles's room. He was sitting up, nurse reading to him. His hair was almost white, and his eyes huge and dark in his thin face.

"The baby is sick?" he asked in his natural voice.

She nodded. He hesitated, closing his eyes. "The baby is dead?"

"Yes."

He was silent a long time. The nurse put her hand on his forehead; two large tears welled from his eyes. "I knew the baby was dead."

After another silence, the nurse said, "The doctor said he could go for a drive today, while there's sun. He needs a change."

"Yes."

"I thought perhaps you could take him instead of me, Mrs. Hemple," the nurse suggested.

Luella shook her head hastily. "Oh, no," she said. "I don't feel able today."

The nurse looked at her oddly. Feeling a sudden pity for Charles, Luella kissed his cheek, then went to her room, put on her hat and coat, and with suitcase headed for the front door.

Immediately she saw a shadow in the hall. If she could get past it, she'd be free. But it didn't move, and with a cry she sank into a hall chair.

"I thought you'd gone," she wailed. "I told you to go."

"I'm going soon," said Doctor Moon, "but I don't want you to make an old mistake."

"I'm leaving my mistakes behind."

"You're trying to leave yourself behind, but you can't. The more you run away, the more you'll have yourself with you."

"But I must go," she insisted wildly. "Out of this house of death and failure!"

"You haven't failed yet. You've only begun."

She stood up. "Let me pass."

"No."

Abruptly she gave way, as she always did with him. She covered her face and cried.

"Go back and tell the nurse you'll take your husband for a drive," he suggested.

"I can't."

"Oh, yes."

Again she looked at him, knowing she would obey. Convinced her spirit was broken, she picked up her suitcase and walked back through the hall.

V

Luella couldn't understand the strange influence Doctor Moon had over her. As days passed, she found herself doing things she'd once hated. She stayed home with Charles; when he improved, she went out with him, but only when he wished. She visited the kitchen daily, keeping an unwilling eye on the house, at first fearing another disaster, then from habit. She felt it was all mixed up with Doctor Moon—something he kept almost telling her about life, but hiding, as if afraid she'd learn.

As they resumed normal life, Charles grew less nervous. His face-rubbing stopped. The world seemed less gay, but she found a certain peace, sometimes, she'd never known.

One afternoon, Doctor Moon announced he was going away.

"For good?" she demanded, with a touch of panic.

"For good."

For a strange moment, she wasn't sure if she was glad or sorry.

"You don't need me anymore," he said quietly. "You don't realize it, but you've grown up."

He came over, sat beside her, took her hand.

Luella sat silent and tense.

"We make an agreement with children that they can sit in the audience without helping with the play," he said. "But if they keep sitting in the audience after they're grown, someone must work double time for them so they can enjoy the light and glitter."

"But I want the light and glitter," she protested. "That's all there is in life. There can't be anything wrong in wanting things to be warm."

"Things will still be warm."

"How?"

"Things will warm themselves from you."

Luella looked at him, startled.

"It's your turn to be the center, to give others what was given to you. Give security to young people, peace to your husband, charity to the old. Let those who work for you depend on you. Cover up a few more troubles than you show, be a little more patient, do a little more than your share. The light and glitter of the world is in your hands."

He broke off. "Get up," he said, "and go to that mirror and tell me what you see."

Obediently, she went to the Venetian pier-glass from her honeymoon.

"I see new lines here," she said, pointing between her eyes, "and shadows at the sides that might be—are little wrinkles."

"Do you care?"

She turned. "No."

"Do you realize Chuck is gone? That you'll never see him again?"

"Yes." She passed a hand over her eyes. "But it seems vague and far away."

"Vague and far away," he repeated. "And are you afraid of me now?"

"Not anymore," she said, "now that you're going."

He moved to the door, looking especially weary tonight.

"The household here is in your keeping," he whispered. "If there is light and warmth, it will be yours. If it's happy, it'll be because you made it so. Happy things may come, but you must never go seeking them. It's your turn to make the fire."

"Won't you sit down a moment longer?"

"There isn't time. But remember, whatever suffering comes, I can always help—if it can be helped. I promise nothing."

He opened the door. She must know before it was too late.

"What have you done to me?" she cried. "Why have I no sorrow left for Chuck—for anything? Tell me; I almost see, yet I can't. Before you go—tell me who you are!"

"Who am I?" His worn suit paused. His round, pale face seemed to dissolve into two faces, a dozen, twenty—each different yet the same, sad, happy, tragic, indifferent, resigned—until sixty Doctor Moons stood like an infinite series of reflections, like months stretching into the past.

"Who am I?" he repeated. "I am five years." The door closed.

At six o'clock, Charles came home, and as usual Luella met him in the hall. His hair was now dead white; his two-year illness had left no other mark. Luella had changed more—a little stouter, lines around her eyes from when Chuck died in 1921. But she was still lovely, with a mature kindness at twenty-eight, as if suffering had only touched her briefly.

"Ede and her husband are coming to dinner," she said. "I have theater tickets, but if you're tired, we don't have to go."

"I'd like to."

She looked. "You wouldn't."

"I really would."

"We'll see how you feel after dinner."

He put his arm around her. Together they walked into the nursery, where the two children were waiting to say good night.