rget!" and with a last smile
she was gone.

Milly went on her way about some errand, thinking that Marion was no
longer in the least pretty,--quite homely, in fact, she was so worn and
white. She had nice, regular features and a quaintly becoming way of
wearing her hair in simple Greek fashion, waving over her brows. If she
only dressed better and took more care of herself, she might be
attractive still. She had let herself fade. Milly wondered if Sam loved
her still, really loved her, as he seemed to in his rough way when they
were together that summer at Gossensass. How could he? That was the
cruelty in marriage for women. Men took the best they had to offer of
their youth and beauty, gave them the burdens of children, and then
wanted something else when they had become homely and unattractive. At
least Jack did not yet have that excuse with her.

Milly did not think that a man might love even a faded flower
like Marion Reddon, if she had kept the sweet savor of her spirit
alive.... So the Reddons were in New York, living far out in the
impossible _hinterland_ of the Bronx. When she told her husband at dinner
of meeting Marion Reddon and of their new move, Jack seemed neither
greatly surprised nor interested.

"We must try to see them," he remarked vaguely.

Perhaps, she thought, he did not care to recall those happier days in
Europe. The truth was that the New York struggle specialized men
intensely, removing to the vague background every one not directly in
the path. Bragdon's efforts were so supremely concentrated on rolling
his own small cart in the push, that he had little spirit to bestow
elsewhere, however well he might wish people like the Reddons and others
not in his immediate game.

"I thought you liked the Reddons," Milly said, half accusingly.

"I do--what makes you think I don't?" he asked, taking up a pipe
preparatory to work.

"You don't seem much interested in their being in New York."

"Oh," he said lightly, "every one comes to New York."

And he turned to his evening task. This habit of working evenings, which
Milly rather resented, served to prevent discussion--of all kinds. She
played a few bars on the piano, then settled herself comfortably with
Clive Reinhard's latest book. That was the way their evenings usually
went unless some one came in, which did not happen often, or Jack was
called out.

Even New York could be dull, Milly found.

II

"BUNKER'S"

Milly could not r