ting each other up with kisses, she was at a loss to
understand. How could they make so much fuss about it?

Poor little wife, with so little love for her husband and no admiration at
all! As an artiste she thought him lamentable. Trampy, who had seemed so
great to her in Mexico ... why, she had shot miles ahead of him since! She
felt that he was getting second-rate. He himself was well aware of it, for
that matter; blamed everybody: suspected a hoodoo somewhere: some son of a
gun bringing him ill-luck. And he was always casting about for an easy
means of success ... another new plan ... always something new ... a
high-sounding title: "Rusty Bike," an old jigger which, at each turn of
the wheel, would grate like a cart, "Crrrra! Crrrra!" and bring the house
down with laughter, while Lily, in the wings, was to sound an
accompaniment on a grating rattle:

"Crrrra! Crrrra!"

"All that set-out for nothing!" said Lily to herself. "It would be much
simpler to have a little talent."

She felt herself overcome with contempt for her husband: what a sorry
bread-winner he made! Why take a wife, when you had only that to keep her
on? Lily did not know whether to laugh or to cry when she saw Trampy come
down from his dressing-room, proud as a peacock, his chest swelling at the
sight of so many girls at a time, a treat of which he never wearied. He
was magnificent, was Trampy, against that background of shoulders, thighs
and calves: in his element as a fish in water. Nor did he make any bones
about smiling to them or monkey-clawing them as they came off the stage.
The presence of his wife did not hinder him. He was sure of her love: he
knew she must adore him, as all the others did. And, leaving Lily in a
corner, in the shade of a pillar, with his eyes he devoured all that
powdered flesh, all those coarse wigs.

Lily hated him at such times. She could have boxed his ears. She had
enough of it, at last. One evening, she caught hold of his arm to take him
away, furious that a gentleman could find a pleasure in making his wife
look so ridiculous! And Trampy, more or less flattered at what he
considered a fond wife's jealousy, was turning to go, when a lady with
plumes on her head and a woolly dog under her arm greeted him with:

"Hullo, old boy! Glad to see you, Trampy!"

Lily--it was a distant memory, but no matter--recognized Poland, the
Parisienne, with the painted face and the violent scent. Trampy took a
step backward. He ex