The angel with the flaming sword stood between them.
For the first time since the delirium of marriage had seized upon him,
Kirk was conscious of a feeling that all was not for the best in a best
of all possible worlds, a feeling of regret, not that he had married--the
mere thought would have been a blasphemy--but that marriage was such a
complicated affair. He liked a calm life, free from complications, and
now they were springing up on every side.
There was the matter of the models. Kirk had supposed that it was only
in the comic papers that the artist's wife objected to his employing
models. He had classed it with the mother-in-law joke, respecting it
for its antiquity, but not imagining that it ever really happened. And
Ruth had brought this absurd situation into the sphere of practical
politics only a few days ago.
Since his marriage Kirk had dropped his work almost entirely. There had
seemed to be no time for it. He liked to spend his days going round the
stores with Ruth, buying her things, or looking in at the windows of
Fifth Avenue shops and choosing what he would buy her when he had made
his fortune. It was agreed upon between them that he was to make his
fortune some day.
Kirk's painting had always been more of a hobby with him than a
profession. He knew that he had talent, but talent without hard work is
a poor weapon, and he had always shirked hard work.
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