s a rubber coat to keep him warm. But little as
he has you'll get half or all of it."

"Poor as--any of us! Oh, my God, Martha!" she groaned, covering her face
with her hands. "I never thought it would come to that--I never thought
he could be poor! I never thought he would suffer in that way. And it is
my fault, Martha--all of it! You must not think I do not see it! Every
word you say is true--and every one else knows that it is true. It was
all vanity and selfishness and stubbornness, never caring whom I hurt,
so that I had the things I wanted. I put the blame on my husband a while
ago because I did not want you to hate me too much. All the women who
do wrong talk that way, hoping for some comforting word in their misery.
But it is I who am to blame, not he. I talk that way to myself in the
night when I lie awake until I nearly lose my mind. Sometimes, too, I
try to cheat myself by thinking that all these terrible things might not
have happened had God not taken my baby. But I don't know. They might
have happened just the same, my head was so full of all that was wicked.
When I think of that, I am glad the baby died. It could never have
called me mother. Oh, Martha, Martha, take me in your arms again--yes,
like that--close against your breast! Kiss me, Martha, as you used to do
when I was little! You do love me, don't you? And you will promise not
to let my husband see me? And now go away, please, and leave me alone. I
cannot stand any more."

Chapter XVI

The talk with Father Cruse, while it had calmed and, to a certain
extent, reassured Felix, had not in any way swerved him from his
determination to find his wife at any cost.

The only change he made in his plans was one of locality. Heretofore,
with the exception of his visits to Stephen--long since discontinued
now that he feared she was an outcast--he had mingled with the throngs
crowding the Great White Way ablaze with light or had haunted the doors
of the popular theatres and expensive restaurants, and the waiting-rooms
of the more fashionable hotels. After this it must be the byways, places
where the poor or worse would congregate: cheap eating-houses; barrooms,
with so-called "family rooms" attached; and always the streets at a
distance from those trodden by the rich and prosperous classes. Father
Cruse might have been right in his diagnosis, and the sleeve-button
might form but a minor link in the chain of events circling the problem
to the sol