e streets excited her like martial music,
and little gasps of surprise and pleasure broke from her lips as the
taxicab turned into Broadway. It was all so different from her other
visit when she had come alone to find Oliver, sick with failure, in the
dismal bedroom of that hotel. Now it seemed to her that the city had
grown younger, that it was more awake, that it was brighter, gayer, and
that she herself had a part in its brightness and its gaiety. The crowds
on Broadway seemed keeping step to some happy tune, and she felt that
her heart was dancing with them, so elated, so girlishly irresponsible
was her mood.

"Why, Oliver, there is a sign of your play with a picture of Miss
Oldcastle on it!" she exclaimed delightedly, pointing to an
advertisement before a theatre they were passing. Then, suddenly, it
appeared to her that the whole city was waving this advertisement.
Wherever she turned "The Home" stared back at her, an orgy of red and
blue surrounding the smiling effigy of the actress. And this proof of
Oliver's fame thrilled her as she had not been thrilled since the
telegram had come announcing that Harry had won the scholarship which
would take him to Oxford. The woman's power of sinking her ambition and
even her identity into the activities of the man was deeply interwoven
with all that was essential and permanent in her soul. Her keenest joys,
as well as her sharpest sorrows, had never belonged to herself, but to
others. It was doubtful, indeed, if, since the day of her marriage, she
had been profoundly moved by any feeling which was centred merely in a
personal desire. She had wanted things for Oliver and for the children,
but for herself there had been no separate existence apart from them.

"Oliver, I never dreamed that it would be like this. The play will be a
great success--even a greater one than the last, won't it, dear?" Her
face, with its exquisite look of exaltation, of self-forgetfulness, was
turned eagerly towards the crowd of feverish pleasure-seekers that
passed on, pursuing its little joys, under the garish signs of the
street.

"Well, it ought to be," he returned; "it's bad enough anyway."

His eyes, like hers, were fixed on the thronging streets, but, unlike
hers, they reflected the restless animation, the pathetic hunger, which
made each of those passing faces appear to be the plastic medium of an
insatiable craving for life. Handsome, well-preserved, a little
over-coloured, a little squa