was a surprise to her to find life placidly proceeding here in this
strange apartment in Geary Street, as if all the world had not stopped
moving and commenced again. The persons she met called her "Mrs.
Bannister" with no visible thrill. Nobody seemed surprised when she and
the big actor quietly went into their room at night and shut the door.

She had fancied that the mere excitement of the new life filled all
brides with a sort of proud complacency; that they felt superior to
other human beings, and secretly scorned the unwed. It was astonishing
to find herself still concerned with the tiny questions of yesterday:
the ruffle torn on the bureau, the little infection that swelled and
inflamed her chin, the quarter of a dollar her Chinese laundryman swore
he had never received. It was always tremendously thrilling to have
Wallace give her money: delightful gold pieces such as even her mother
seldom handled. She felt a naive resentment that so many of them had to
be spent for what she called "uninteresting" things: lodging and food
and car fares. They seemed so more than sufficient, when she first
touched them; they melted so mysteriously away. She felt that there
should be great saving on so generous an allowance, but Wallace never
saved, nor did any of his friends and associates.

So that a sense of being baffled began to puzzle her. She was married
now; the great question of life had been answered in the affirmative.
But--but the future was vague and unsettled still. Even married persons
had their problems. Even the best of husbands sometimes left a tiny
something to be desired.

Husbands, in Martie's dreams, were ideal persons who laughed
indulgently at adored wives, produced money without question or stint,
and for twenty or fifty years, as the span of their lives might decree,
came home appreciatively to delicious dinners, escorted their wives
proudly to dinner or theatre, made presents, paid compliments, and
disposed of bills. That her mother had once perhaps had some such idea
of her father did not occur to her.

"Lissen, dear, did I wake you up?" said Mrs. Wallace Bannister, coming
quietly into the sitting room that connected her bedroom with that of
Mrs. Jesse Cluett, in the early hours of an August morning.

"No--o! This feller wakes me up," Mrs. Cluett said, yawning and pale,
but cheerful. She indicated the fat, serious baby in her arms. "Honest,
it's enough to kill a girl, playing every night and Sunday,