ty over her father's character, generously giving Lydia an
anonymous admirer, and painting the dreary old mansion of North Main
Street as a sort of enchanted prison with her pretty restless self as
captive therein. The two exchanged brief French phrases, each believing
the other to have a fair command of the language, and Martie even
quoted poetry, to which Rodney listened in intense silence, his eyes
fixed upon hers.

Suddenly the house was darkened and the curtain rose. The play was "The
Sword of the King," a drama that seemed to Martie well suited to her
own exalted mood. She thought the whole company wonderful, the leading
lady especially gifted. She learned with awe that Rodney had known
Wallace Bannister, the leading man, more or less intimately for years.
An aunt of his lived in Pittsville and the two had met as boys and
later had been classmates for the brief period Bannister had remained
at the Leland Stanford University. Martie wrapped her beauty-starved
young soul in the perfect past, when men wore ruffles and buckles and
capes, and were all gallantry and courage, and when women were
beautiful and desired. Between the acts the delicious exchange of
confidences between herself and Rodney went on; they nibbled
Bonestell's chocolates from a striped paper bag as they talked, and
when the final curtain fell on a ringing line there were real tears of
pleasure in Martie's eyes.

"Oh, Rodney--this is LIVING!" she whispered, as they filed slowly out.

Sally and Lydia had considerately disappeared. Mrs. Clifford Frost was
waiting for them at the door, and Martie, with quick tact, fell into
conversation with the kindly matron, walking at her side down the
crowded street, and leaving Rodney to follow with the others. Little
Ruth Frost had had some trouble fearfully resembling diphtheria, and
Martie's first interested question was enough to enlist the mother's
attention. The girl did not really notice the others in the party.

They crossed muddy Main Street, passed Wilkins's Furniture and Coffin
Parlours, and went into the shabby French restaurant known as Mussoo's.
The little eating house, with its cheap, white-painted shop window,
looking directly upon the sidewalk, its pyramid of oyster shells
cascading from a box set by the entrance, its jangling bell that the
opening door set to clanging, its dingy cash register, damp
tablecloths, and bottles of red catsup, was not a place to which Monroe
residents pointed with p