ppose
it's better to have their wives with 'em, than to have 'em go off by
themselves!"

"They all SHOULDN'T do it!" Martie answered sombrely.

"Well, no; I suppose they shouldn't!" Mabel conceded amiably. She
carried the baby away, and Martie sat on, gazing sternly at the
unconscious Wallace.

Half an hour passed, another half hour. Martie had intended to do some
serious thinking, but she found herself sleepy.

After a while she crept in beside her husband, and went to sleep, her
heart still hot with anger.

But when the morning came she forgave him, as she was often to forgive
him. What else could she do? The sunlight was streaming into their
large, shabby bedroom, cable cars were rattling by, fog whistles from
the bay penetrated the soft winter air. Martie was healthily hungry for
breakfast, Wallace awakened good natured and penitent.

"You were a darling to me last night, Mart," he said appreciatively.

Martie had not known he was awake. She turned from her mirror,
regarding him steadily between the curtains of her shining hair.

"And you're a darling not to rub it in," Wallace pursued.

"I WOULD rub it in," Martie said in a hurt voice, "if I thought it
would do any good!"

Wallace sat up, and pressed his hands against his forehead.

"Well, believe me--that was the last!" he said fervently. "Never again!"

"Oh, dearest," Martie said, coming to sit beside him, "I hope you mean
that!" That he did mean it, they both believed.

Half an hour later, when they went out to breakfast, she was in her
happiest mood. The little cloud, in vanishing, had left the sky clearer
than before. But some little quality of blind admiration and faith was
gone from her wifeliness thereafter.

In December the stock company had a Re-engagement Extraordinary, and
Martie got her first part. It was not much of a part--three lines--but
she approached it with passionate seriousness, and when the first
rehearsal came, rattled off her three lines so glibly that the entire
jaded company and the director enjoyed a refreshing laugh. At the
costumier's, in a fascinating welter of tarnished and shabby garments,
she selected a suitable dress, and Wallace coached her, made up her
face, and prompted her with great pride. So the tiny part went well,
and one of the papers gave a praising line to "Junoesque Miss
Salisbury." These were happy days. Martie loved the odorous, dark,
crowded world behind the scenes, loved to be a part of it. This wa