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"Baby him! Heaven knows he needs a little babying with a father
like you!"

The man's shoulders slumped, but his gaze was clear and vehe-
ment. He said simply, "I think you had better come in and make
supper. It's late." He turned slowly and walked back into the house
leaving the door open behind him.

The contents of Sheila's pocketbook were strewn over the grass.
A slight wind had scattered the papers. "Please pick up Mommy's
things," she instructed Dougie. She strode towards the house, entering
the kitchen by the open door. Douglas was in the living room. She
stood in the doorway connecting the two rooms. "The least you could
do," she taunted, "would be to shut the door."

Douglas raised his eyes from the evening paper. "I believe I am
correct in stating that I still pay the heat bills in this house. God
knows I have little enough dignity left. Grant me at least the privilege
to leave the door open if I feel like it." He returned his attention to
the paper.

"So we're on that subject again," Sheila flared back. "We're on
the almighty pride of the man who doesn't want his wife to work."
She removed her coat and slung it across an easy chair.

"For God's sake, Sheila," Douglas answered wearily. "Let's not
go through this again. Let's have at least one relatively quiet evening-
if it's not asking too much." The paper crackled as he turned the page.

"Oh, no, it's not asking too much," Sheila returned, bitterly. "You
never ask too much. Just that I keep quiet while you rant about my
working." She paused and continued with slow deadliness. "If you'd
earn enough money, maybe I wouldn't have to work."

Douglas leaped to his feet. "Enough money!" he exploded. "I
k.now plenty of families of three tha t manage to scrape along on seven
thousand per. Of course these people don't happen to think that
tailor-made clothes, a foreign car and a private school for their sons
are exactly necessities!" He reached in his pocket for a cigarette with
trembling hands. He located the pack, mashed flat by his suit coat.
"Damn, it's empty!" He slung the crushed package to the floor.

Sheila bent over the coffee table and picked up a pack of her
filter-tip cigarettes. "Here," she said, "If you're not too proud to smoke
one of mine."

He snatched the cigarette from her, jamming the plain tip be-
tween his lips. He lit the other end, inhaling deeply. "What the
devil," he muttered, jamming the cigarette out in an ash-tray. The
smell of burnt cellulose filled the room.

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