ONE WIFE’S HUSBAND. 
345 
vision them — streaming, for all the world to 
see, almost flamboyant, a flowing banner 
embroidered with the words “ Nobility of 
Character.” It was with a wonderful sense 
of exhilaration that he mentally surveyed 
his “ flag.” It would be hard, almost unen- 
durably hard, to do his fighting in silence — ■ 
for inevitably Isabel and all the others would 
misunderstand, until understanding would 
arrive too late to make it easy — but that was 
his destiny— to traverse the hard way. 
(That would have been an amazed phre- 
nologist had lie known how the few curt, 
unconsidered stock flatteries he had marketed 
for small silver had inspired his latest 
customer.) 
Paul Osmond stepped into the teashop with 
his head up, chin out, a faint flush on his 
checks, bright-eyed, and calm. 
He had changed subtly already — he would 
always look an ordinary, average, unarresting 
person — but one with self-respect. 
Isabel looked at him with tired eyes, 
smiling. 
“ I can see that you are all right,” she 
said, confidently. “ What did he say ? ” 
“ Right as rain — just got to be careful 
about drinks and smokes — simple diet,” 
replied Osmond. “ I knew that — it was 
money wasted.” 
Isabel nodded. 
“All the same I’m glad you went,” she 
declared, complacently. “ Now I don’t care if 
I did spend more than I wanted to, as long 
as you’re all right. Will you have some tea ? 
No — not that, it’s cold. I’ll order a fresh pot.” 
“ Oh, this will do.” lie poured himself a 
Cup from her teapot. As she had said, it was 
cold, but it was threepence saved. Three- 
pence for Doreen and his wife. That was the 
start. Good. 
Outside the door of the teashop a taxi-cab 
slid by. The driver looked at them — a 
human note of interrogation. 
“ Oh, Paul — let’s have a taxi to the 
station ! ” 
Something shook him suddenly. He felt 
like a ship which, leaving the smoothness of a 
harbour, encounters its first buffet from the 
open water. The threepence had been self- 
denial — easy. This taxi fare was denial to 
his wife. And she was tired. 
He shook his head, flushing. 
Better walk to Oxford Circus, old lady. 
No use throwing money away, eh ? ” 
The taxi rolled on out of hail. Isabel’s face 
took on a slight, very slight, bleakness. 
“ Oh, all right,” she said. She inflected a 
faint increase of weariness into her voice. 
Osmond took her arm. 
“ The doctor said I ought to walk as much 
as possible for the sake of the extra exercise.” 
She nodded. 
“ All right, Paul. I was just a little tired, 
that’s all.” 
So they went home to Doreen. 
Osmond had not realized quite how hard 
it was going to be until the child greeted him, 
climbing on his knee for the ten minutes or so 
before the evening meal that was sacredly his. 
As he commenced, so he continued. He 
did not .smoke that evening, nor enjoy his 
customary glass or so of whisky, and he 
found a queer pleasure in totting the items 
together as he saved each — thus, tea three- 
pence, taxi two shillings, evening paper half- 
penny, two whiskies, say sixpence, tobacco, 
three or four pipes, say threehalf pence, 
total two and elevenpence. It was extra- 
ordinary how these things mounted up, 
small sums one usually spent without thinking. 
Nevertheless, he was too much a business 
man not to realize that it was to the big items 
he must look for big saving — Isabel’s clothes, 
rent, household expenses, and so on. It 
was significant that instinctively he put his 
wife’s clothes first as being the heaviest 
item. 
It was that which made it clear to him 
that he must enlist Isabel’s co-operation in 
economy if he was going to effect anything 
important. 
He had his plan. It had often occurred 
to him that a duty on paper or wood pulp or 
other imported materials for the manufacture 
of paper would deal a serious blow at his trade. 
So many periodicals there were which existed 
on the knife-edge between that profit and 
loss which, commercially, is synonymous 
with life and death, that even a slight rise 
in the price of paper would kill them at once. 
Since his firm, being young, did perforce 
a large share of its business among these 
papers, the death of any of them affected 
the firm’s profits adversely. He had often 
explained this to Isabel, casually. 
He looked across at her. 
“ I expect you thought I was mean about 
that taxi, old girl ? ” he said. 
Isabel put down her book. 
“ And so I was. Because we’ve got to 
save. Mason told me to-day that he thinks 
a tax on paper is only a question ol months. 
If it is, it means a bit of a struggle for some of 
us smaller firms.” 
He explained, with a wealth of rather 
shallow detail. His facts were right, but 
