Young Howe had been firmly resolved to give up all his bachelor habits with
his wedding day. In his indolent, rather selfish way, he was much in love
with his wife.

But with the inevitable misunderstandings of the first months of marriage
had come a desire to be appreciated once again at his face value. Grace
had taken him, not for what he was, but for what he seemed to be. With
Christine the veil was rent. She knew him now--all his small indolences,
his affectations, his weaknesses. Later on, like other women since the
world began, she would learn to dissemble, to affect to believe him what
he was not.

Grace had learned this lesson long ago. It was the ABC of her knowledge.
And so, back to Grace six weeks after his wedding day came Palmer Howe, not
with a suggestion to renew the old relationship, but for comradeship.

Christine sulked--he wanted good cheer; Christine was intolerant--he wanted
tolerance; she disapproved of him and showed her disapproval--he wanted
approval. He wanted life to be comfortable and cheerful, without
recriminations, a little work and much play, a drink when one was thirsty.
Distorted though it was, and founded on a wrong basis, perhaps, deep in his
heart Palmer's only longing was for happiness; but this happiness must be
of an active sort--not content, which is passive, but enjoyment.

"Come on out," he said. "I've got a car now. No taxi working its head off
for us. Just a little run over the country roads, eh?"