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“Not I! I leave such delicate questions to persons of your tact and penetration, dear.”

“I know you’re trying to be horrible, but I simply refuse to take any notice of you,” declared his wife, adding in a tone of anguish, “Oh, Winthrop, why will you wear those detestable collars? Really, I often wonder why on earth I married you!”

The question of Tony’s extraction was shelved for the moment, for Alison was still “going warily,” and conversation meant chiefly discussions of the books which Tony now devoured eagerly. Alison reported progress to the Professor every evening. She had come to regard the sickroom rather as a battlefield where she and the invalid fought a prolonged fight; and in spite of Winthrop’s advice to “leave the ungrateful young wretch alone—he doesn’t deserve you!” she went valiantly on, confident of final victory. She had many rebuffs, and some which really hurt, for Tony, conscious that he was being won over in spite of himself, still despised this gentle bondage, and sometimes made a sudden struggle after freedom, hurting the soft hand which held the cords.

One day, for instance, as Alison finished reading aloud some modern story, he burst forth with his verdict of “That’s rot! Stupid!”

“Why is it stupid?” Alison asked. “I can imagine people capable of just as much generosity and self-sacrifice as that.”

“Not out in the world! They’re all on the make—they’re all looking out for themselves. Do you think I don’t know?” (Tony was decidedly out of temper. His leg ached; his head too; it was hot, and he was dead sick of bed and patronage.) He continued deliberately:

“Everyone wants to get the better of someone else. I expect you and the Professor would do me if you could—