ined and talked in utter harmony, he
would fail her again. Then came dark days, when Martie's heart
smouldered resentfully hour after busy hour. How could he--how could he
risk his position, waste his money, antagonize his wife, break all his
promises! She could not forgive him this time, she could not go through
the humiliating explanations, apologies, asseverations, again be
reconciled and again deceived!

He knew how to handle her, and she knew he knew. When the day or two of
sickness and headache were over he would shave and dress carefully and
come quietly and penitently back into the life of the house. Would Ted
like to go off with Dad for a walk? Couldn't he go to market for her?
Couldn't he go along and wheel Margaret?

Silently, with compressed lips, Martie might pass and repass him. But
the moment always came when he caught her and locked her in his arms.

"Martie, dearest! I know how you feel--I won't blame you! I know what a
skunk and a beast I am. What can I do? How can I show you how sorry I
am? Don't--don't feel so badly! Tell me anything--any oath, any
promise, I'll make it! You're just breaking my heart, acting like this!"

For half an hour, for an hour, her hurt might keep her unresponsive. In
the end, she always kissed him, with wet eyes, and they began again.

Happy hours followed. Wallace would help her with the baby's bath, with
Teddy's dressing, and the united Bannisters go forth for a holiday.
Martie, her splendid square little son leaning on her shoulder, the
veiled bundle of blankets that was Margaret safely sleeping in the
crib, her handsome husband dressing for "a party," felt herself a
blessed and happy woman.

Frequently, when he was not playing, they went to matinees, afterward
drifting out into the five o'clock darkness to join the Broadway
current. Here Wallace always met friends: picturesque looking men, and
bright-eyed, hard-faced women. Invariably they went into some hotel,
and sat about a bare table, for drinks. Warmed and cheered, the
question of convivialities arose.

"Lissen; we are all going to Kingwell's for eats," Wallace would tell
his wife.

"But, Wallace, Isabeau is going to have dinner at home!" It was no use;
the bright eye, the thickened lips, the loosened speech evaded her. He
understood her, he had perfect self-control, but she could influence
him no longer. Mutinous, she would go with the chattering women into
the dressing room, where they powdered, rouged lip