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It appealed to him, as it might well have to any artist. In his way Duer understood this, felt it keenly.

“Why, Margie,” he insisted, “you mustn’t talk like that! You’re better than you say you are. You say you don’t know anything about books or art or music. Why, that isn’t all. There are things, many things, which are deeper than those things. Emotion is a great thing in itself, dearest, if you only knew. You have that. Sarah Bernnhardt had it; Clara Morris had it, but who else? In “La Dame aux Camelias,” “Sappho,” “Carmen,” “Mademoiselle de Maupin,” it is written about, but it is never commonplace. It’s great. I’d rather have your deep upwelling of emotion than all those cheap pictures, songs, and talk put together. For, sweet, don’t you know” — and he cuddled her more closely — “great art is based on great emotion. There is really no great art without it. I know that best of all, being a musician. You may not have the power to express yourself in music or books or pictures — you play charmingly enough for me — but you have the thing on which these things are based; you have the power to feel them. Don’t worry over yourself, dear. I see that, and I know what you are, whether any one else does or not. Don’t worry over me. I have to be nice to these people. I like them in their way, but I love you. I married you — isn’t that proof enough? What more do you want? Don’t you understand, little Margie? Don’t you see? Now aren’t you going to cheer up and be happy? You have me. Ain’t I enough, sweetie? Can’t you be happy with just me? What more do you want? Just tell me.”

“Nothing more, honey-bun!” she went on sobbing and cuddling close; “nothing more, if I can have you. Just you! That’s all I want — you, you, you!”

She hugged him tight. Duer sighed secretly. He really did not believe all he said, but what of it? What else could he do, say, he asked himself? He was married to her. In his way, he loved her — or at least sympathized with her intensely.

“And am I emotionally great?” she cuddled and cooed, after she had held him tight for a few moments.”Doesn’t it make any difference whether I know anything much about music or books or art? I do know something, don’t I, honey? I’m not wholly ignorant:, am I?”

“No, no, sweetie; how you talk!”

“And will you always love me whether I know anything or not, honey-bun?” she went on.”And won t it make any d
ifference whether I can just cook and sew and do the marketing and keep house for you? And will you like me because I’m just pretty and not smart? I am a little pretty, ain’t I, dear?”

“You’re lovely,” whispered Duer soothingly.”You’re beautiful. Listen to me, sweet. I want to tell you something. Stop crying now, and dry your eyes, and I’ll tell you something nice. Do you remember how we stood, one night, at the end of your father’s field there near the barn-gate and saw him coming down the path, singing to himself, driving that team of big gray horses, his big straw hat on the back of his head and his sleeves rolled up above his elbows?”

“Yes,” said Marjorie.

“Do you remember how the air smelled of roses and honeysuckle and cut hay — and oh, all those lovely scents of evening that we have out there in the country?”

“Yes,” replied Marjorie interestedly.

“And do you remember how lovely I said the cow-bells sounded tinkling in the pasture where the little river ran