You are a chimney, a living volcano, a perambulating smoke-stack, and you are a perfect disgrace, Martin dear, you know you are." She leaned toward him, entreaty in her eyes, and as he looked at her delicate face and into her pure, limpid eyes, as of old he was struck with his own unworthiness.
"I wish you wouldn't smoke any more," she whispered.

"Please, for--my sake." "All right, I won't," he cried.

"I'll do anything you ask, dear love, anything; you know that." A great temptation assailed her.

In an insistent way she had caught glimpses of the large, easy-going side of his nature, and she felt sure, if she asked him to cease attempting to write, that he would grant her wish.

In the swift instant that elapsed, the words trembled on her lips.
But she did not utter them.