s of their love, days of youth and success and plenty, Martie
had been as frankly an egotist as he. His heaviness, his lack of
interest in what excited her, his general unresponsiveness, came to her
now more as a recollection than a surprise.

The farce in which he had a part really did prove fairly successful,
and his salary was steady and his hours comfortable until after the new
year. Then the run ended, and Wallace drifted for three or four weeks
that were full of deep anxiety for Martie.

When he was engaged again, in a vaudeville sketch that was booked for a
few weeks on one of the smaller circuits about New York, she had some
difficulty in making him attend rehearsals, and take his part
seriously. His friends were generally of the opinion that it was
beneath his art. His wife urged that "it might lead to something."

Wallace was amused at her concern. Actors never worked the whole year
round, he assured her. There was nothing doing in the summertime, ever.
Martie remarked, with a half-sorry laugh, that a salary of one hundred
dollars a week for ten weeks was less than eighty-five dollars a month,
and the same salary, if drawn for only five weeks, came to something
less than a living income.

"Don't worry!" Wallace said.

"Wallace, it's not for myself. It's for the--the children. My dear! If
it wasn't for that, it would be a perfect delight to me to take luck
just as it came, go to Texas or Canada with you, work up parts myself!"
she would answer eagerly. She wanted to be a good wife to him, to give
him just what all men wanted in their wives. But under all her bravery
lurked a sick sense of defeat. He never knew how often he failed her.

And he was older. He was not far from forty, and his youth was gone. He
did not care for the little dishes Martie so happily prepared, the
salads and muffins, the eggs "en cocotte" and "suzette." He wanted
thick broiled steak, and fried potatoes, and coffee, and nothing else.
He slept late in the mornings, coming out frowsy-headed in undershirt
and trousers to breakfast at ten or eleven, reading the paper while he
ate, and scenting the room with thick cigar smoke.

Martie waited on him, interrupting his reading with her chatter. She
would sit opposite him, watching the ham and eggs vanish, and the
coffee go in deep, appreciative gulps.

"How d'you feel, Wallie?"

"Oh, rotten. My head is the limit!"

"Too bad! More coffee?"

"Nope. Was that the kid banging this mornin