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Revelations of a Wife by Adele Garrison

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[Illustration: "LOOK AT ME, MARGARET."]


The Story of a Honeymoon



1915, 1916, 1917















































Probably it is true that no two persons entertain precisely the same
view of marriage. If any two did, and one happened to be a man and the
other a woman, there would be many advantages in their exemplifying
the harmony by marrying each other--unless they had already married
some one else.

Sour-minded critics of life have said that the only persons who are
likely to understand what marriage ought to be are those who
have found it to be something else. Of course most of the foolish
criticisms of marriage are made by those who would find the same fault
with life itself. One man who was asked whether life was worth living,
answered that it depended on the liver. Thus, it has been pointed out
that marriage can be only as good as the persons who marry. This is
simply to say that a partnership is only as good as the partners.

"Revelations of a Wife" is a woman's confession. Marriage is so vital
a matter to a woman that when she writes about it she is always likely
to be in earnest. In this instance, the likelihood is borne out. Adele
Garrison has listened to the whisperings of her own heart. She has
done more. She has caught the wireless from a man's heart. And she has
poured the record into this story.

The woman of this story is only one kind of a woman, and the man
is only one kind of a man. But their experiences will touch the
consciousness--I was going to say the conscience--of every man or
woman who has either married or measured marriage, and we've all done
one or the other.


Revelations of a Wife



Today we were married.

I have said these words over and over to myself, and now I have
written them, and the written characters seem as strange to me as the
uttered words did. I cannot believe that I, Margaret Spencer, 27 years
old, I who laughed and sneered at marriage, justifying myself by the
tragedies and unhappiness of scores of my friends, I who have made for
myself a place in the world's work with an assured comfortable income,
have suddenly thrown all my theories to the winds and given myself
in marriage in as impetuous, unreasoning fashion as any foolish

I shall have to change a word in that last paragraph. I forgot that
I am no longer Margaret Spencer, but Margaret Graham, Mrs. Richard
Graham, or, more probably, Mrs. "Dicky" Graham. I don't believe
anybody in the world ever called Richard anything but "Dicky."

On the other hand, nobody but Richard ever called me anything shorter
than my own dignified name. I have been "Madge" to him almost ever
since I knew him.

Dear, dear Dicky! If I talked a hundred years I could not express the
difference between us in any better fashion. He is "Dicky" and I am

He is downstairs now in the smoking room, impatiently humoring this
lifelong habit of mine to have one hour of the day all to myself.

My mother taught me this when I was a tiny girl. My "thinking hour,"
she called it, a time when I solved my small problems or pondered my
baby sins. All my life I have kept up the practice. And now I am going
to devote it to another request of the little mother who went away
from me forever last year.

"Margaret, darling," she said to me on the last day we ever talked
together, "some time you are going to marry--you do not think so now,
but you will--and how I wish I had time to warn you of all the hidden
rocks in your course! If I only had kept a record of those days of my
own unhappiness, you might learn to avoid the wretchedness that was
mine. Promise me that if you marry you will write down the problems
that confront you and your solution of them, so than when your own
baby girl comes to you and grows into womanhood she may be helped by
your experience."

Poor little mother! Her marriage with my father had been one of those
wretched tragedies, the knowledge of which frightens so many people
away from the altar. I have no memory of my father. I do not know
today whether he be living or dead. When I was 4 years old he ran away
with the woman who had been my mother's most intimate friend. All my
life has been warped by the knowledge. Even now, worshipping Dicky as
I do, I am wondering as I sit here, obeying my mother's last request,
whether or not an experience like hers will come to me.

A fine augury for our happiness when such thoughts as this can come to
me on my wedding day!

Dicky is an artist, with all the faults and all the lovable virtues
of his kind. A week ago I was a teacher, holding one of the most
desirable positions in the city schools. We met just six months ago,
two of the most unsuited people who could be thrown together. And
now we are married! Next week we begin housekeeping in a dear little
apartment near Dicky's studio.

Dicky has insisted that I give up my work, and against all my
convictions I have yielded to his wishes. But on my part I have
stipulated that I must be permitted to do the housework of our nest,
with the occasional help of a laundress. I will be no parasite wife
who neither helps her husband in or out of the home. But the little
devils must be busy laughing just now. I, who have hardly hung up
my own nightgown for years, and whose knowledge of housekeeping is
mightily near zero, am to try to make home happy and comfortable for
an artist! Poor Dicky!

I don't know what has come to me. I worship Dicky. He sweeps me off
my feet with his love, his vivid personality overpowers my more
commonplace self, but through all the bewildering intoxication of
my engagement and marriage a little mocking devil, a cool, cynical,
little devil, is constantly whispering in my ear: "You fool, you fool,
to imagine you can escape unhappiness! There is no such thing as a
happy marriage!"

Dicky has just 'phoned up from the smoking room to ask me if my hour
isn't up. How his voice clears away all the miasma of my miserable
thoughts! Please God, Dicky, I am going to lock up all my old ideas in
the most unused closet of my brain, and try my best to be a good wife
to you! I will be happy! I will! I WILL!



"I'll give you three guesses, Madge." Dicky stood just inside the door
of the living room, holding an immense parcel carefully wrapped. His
hat was on the back of his head, his eyes shining, his whole face
aglow with boyish mischief.

"It's for you, my first housekeeping present, that is needed in every
well regulated family," he burlesqued boastfully, "but you are not to
see it until we have something to eat, and you have guessed what it

"I know it is something lovely, dear," I replied sedately, "but come
to your dinner. It is getting cold."

Dicky looked a trifle hurt as he followed me to the dining room. I
knew what he expected--enthusiastic curiosity and a demand for the
immediate opening of the parcel, I can imagine the pretty enthusiasm,
the caresses with which almost any other woman would have greeted a
bridegroom of two weeks with his first present.

But it's simply impossible for me to gush. I cannot express emotion of
any kind with the facility of most women. I worshipped my mother, but
I rarely kissed her or expressed my love for her in words. My love for
Dicky terrifies me sometimes, it is so strong, but I cannot go up
to him and offer him an unsolicited kiss or caress. Respond to his
caresses, yes! but offer them of my own volition, never! There is
something inside me that makes it an absolute impossibility.

"What's the menu, Madge? The beef again?"

Dicky's tone was mildly quizzical, his smile mischievous, but I
flushed hotly. He had touched a sore spot. The butcher had brought
me a huge slab of meat for my first dinner when I had timidly ordered
"rib roast," and with the aid of my mother's cook book and my own
smattering of cooking, my sole housewifely accomplishment, I had been
trying to disguise it for subsequent meals.

"This is positively its last appearance on any stage," I assured him,
trying to be gay. "Besides, it's a casserole, with rice, and I defy
you to detect whether the chief ingredient be fish, flesh or fowl."

"Casserole is usually my pet aversion," Dicky said solemnly. Look not
on the casserole when it is table d'hote, is one of the pet little
proverbs in my immediate set. Too much like Spanish steak and the
other good chances for ptomaines. But if you made it I'll tackle
it--if you have to call the ambulance in the next half-hour."

"Dicky, you surely do not think I would use meat that was doubtful,
do you?" I asked, horror-stricken. "Don't eat it. Wait and I'll fix up
some eggs for you."

Dicky rose stiffly, walked slowly around to my side of the table, and
gravely tapped my head in imitation of a phrenologist.

"Absolute depression where the bump called 'sense of humor' ought to
be. Too bad! Pretty creature, too. Cause her lots of trouble, in the
days to come," he chanted solemnly.

Then he bent and kissed me. "Don't be a goose, Madge," he admonished,
"and never, never take me seriously. I don't know the meaning of the
word. Come on, let's eat the thing-um bob. I'll bet it's delicious."

He uncovered the casserole and regarded the steaming contents
critically. "Smells scrumptious," he announced. "What's in the other?
Potatoes au gratin?" as he took off the cover of the other serving
dish. "Good! One of my favorites."

He piled a liberal portion on any plate and helped himself as
generously. He ate heartily of both dishes, ignoring or not noticing
that I scarcely touched either dish.

For I was fast lapsing into one of the moods which my little mother
used to call my "morbid streaks" and which she had vainly tried to
cure ever since I was a tiny girl.

Dicky didn't like my cooking! He was only pretending! Dicky was
disappointed in the way I received the announcement of his present!
Probably he soon would find me wanting in other things.

As I took our plates to the kitchen and brought on a lettuce and
tomato salad with a mayonnaise dressing over which I had toiled for an
hour, I was trying hard to choke back the tears.

When I brought on the baked apples which I had prepared with especial
care for dessert, Dick gave them one glance which to my oversensitive
mind looked disparaging. Then he pushed back his chair.

"Don't believe I want any dessert today. The rest of the dinner was so
good I ate too much of it. Eat yours and I'll undo your surprise."

"Whatever in the world?" I began as Dicky lifted the lid and revealed
a big Angora cat. Then my voice changed. "Why, Dicky, you don't
mean--" But Dicky was absorbed in lifting the cat out.

"Isn't she a beauty?" he said admiringly. But I was almost into the
dining room.

"I suppose she is," I replied faintly, "but surely you do not intend
her for me?"

"Why not?" Dicky's tone was sharper than I had ever heard it. He set
the cat down on the floor and she walked over to me. I pushed her away
gently with my foot as I replied:

"Because I dislike cats--intensely. Besides, you know cats are so
unsanitary, always carrying disease--"

"Oh, get out of it, Madge," Dicky interrupted. "Forget that scientific
foolishness you absorbed when you were school ma'aming. Besides, this
cat is a thoroughbred, never been outside the home where she was born
till now. Do you happen to know what this gift you are tossing aside
so nonchalantly would have cost if it hadn't been given me by a dear
friend? A cool two hundred, that's all. It seems to me you might try
to get over your prejudices, especially when I tell you that I am very
fond of cats and like to see them around."

Dicky's voice held a note of appeal, but I chose to ignore it. My
particular little devil must have sat at my elbow.

"I am sorry," I said coldly, "but really, I do not see why it is any
more incumbent on me to try to overcome my very real aversion to cats
than it is for you to try to do without their society."

"Very well," Dicky exclaimed angrily, turning toward the door. "If you
feel that way about it, there is nothing more to be said."

Then Dicky slammed the living room door behind him to emphasize his
words, went down the hall, slammed the apartment door and ran down the

Back in the living room, huddled up in the big chair which is the
chief pride of the woman who rents us the furnished apartment, I sat,
as angry as Dicky, and heartsick besides. Our first quarrel had come!

But the cat remained. What was I to do with her? There is no cure for
a quarrel like loneliness and reflection. Dicky had not been gone a
half-hour after our disagreement over the cat before I was wondering
how we both could have been so silly.

I thought it out carefully. I could see that Dicky was accustomed to
having his own way unquestioned. He had told me once that his mother
and sister had spoiled him, and I reflected that he evidently expected
me to go on in the same way.

On the other hand, I had been absolutely my own mistress for years,
the little mother in a way being more my child than I hers. Accustomed
to decide for myself every question of my life I had no desire,
neither had I intention of doing, any clinging vine act with Dicky
posing at the strong oak.

But I also had the common sense to see that there would be real issues
in our lives without wasting our ammunition over a cat. Then, too, the
remembrance of Dicky's happy face when he thought he was surprising me
tugged at my heart.

"If he wants a cat, a cat he shall have," I said to myself, and
calling my unwelcome guest to me with a resolute determination to do
my duty by the beast, no matter how distasteful the task, I was just
putting a saucer of milk in front of her when the door opened and
Dicky came in like a whirlwind.

"How do you wear sackcloth and ashes?" he cried, catching me in his
arms as he made the query. "If you've got any in the house bring 'em
along and I'll put them on. Seriously, girl, I'm awfully sorry I let
my temper out of its little cage. No nice thing getting angry at
your bride, because she doesn't like cats. I'll take the beast back

"Indeed, you'll do no such thing," I protested. "You're not the only
one who is sorry, I made up my mind before you came back not only to
keep this cat, but to learn to like her."

Dicky kissed me. "You're a brick, sweetheart," he said heartily, "and
I've got a reward for you, a peace offering. Get on your frills, for
we're going to a first night. Sanders was called out of town, had the
tickets on his hands, and turned them over to me. Hurry up while I get
into my moonlights."

"Your what?" I was mystified.

"Evening clothes, goose." Dicky threw the words over his shoulder as
he took down the telephone receiver. "Can you dress in half an hour?
We have only that."

"I'll be ready."

As I closed the door of my room I heard Dicky ask for the number of
the taxicab company where he kept an account. Impulsively, I started
toward him to remonstrate against the extravagance, but stopped as I
heard the patter of rain against the windows.

"I'll leave this evening entirely in Dicky's hands," I resolved as I
began to dress.



Our taxi drew into the long line of motor cars before the theatre and
slowly crept up to the door. Dicky jumped out, raised his umbrella and
guided me into the lobby. It was filled with men and women, some in
elaborate evening dress, others in street garb. Some were going in
to their seats, others were gossiping with each other, still others
appeared to be waiting for friends.

The most conspicuous of all the women leaned against the wall and
gazed at others through a lorgnette which she handled as if she had
not long before been accustomed to its use. Her gown, a glaringly
cut one, was of scarlet chiffon over silk, and her brocaded cape was
half-slipping from her shoulder. Her hair was frankly dyed, and she
rouged outrageously.

I gazed at her fascinated. She typified to me everything that was
disagreeable. I have always disliked even being in the neighborhood
of her vulgar kind. What was my horror, then, to see her deliberately
smiling at me, then coming toward us with hand outstretched.

I realized the truth even before she spoke. It was not I at whom she
was smiling, but Dicky. She was Dicky's friend!

"Why, bless my soul, if it isn't the Dicky-bird," she cried so loudly
that everybody turned to look at us. She took my hand. "I suppose you
are the bride Dicky's been hiding away so jealously." She looked me up
and down as if I were on exhibition and turning to Dicky said. "Pretty
good taste, Dicky, but I don't imagine that your old friends will see
much of you from now on."

"That's where you're wrong, Lil," returned Dicky easily. "We're going
to have you all up some night soon."

"See that you do," she returned, tweaking his ear as we passed on to
our seats.

I had not spoken during the conversation. I had shaken the hand of the
woman and smiled at her.

But over and over again in my brain this question was revolving:

"Who is this unpleasant woman who calls my husband 'Dicky-bird,' and
who is called 'Lil' by him?"

But I love the very air of the theatre, so as Dicky and I sank into
the old-fashioned brocaded seats I resolutely put away from my mind
all disturbing thoughts of the woman in the lobby who appeared on such
good terms with my husband, and prepared to enjoy every moment of the

"Well done, Madge," Dicky whispered mischievously, as, after we had
been seated, I let my cloak drop from my shoulders without arising.
"You wriggled that off in the most approved manner."

"I ought to," I whispered back. "I've watched other women with envious
attention during all the lean years, when I wore tailor-mades to mill
and to meeting."

Dicky squeezed my hand under cover of the cloak. "No more lean years
for my girl if I can help it." he murmured earnestly.

Dicky appeared to know a number of people in the audience. A
half-dozen men and two or three women bowed to him. He told me about
each one. Two were dramatic critics, others artist and actor friends.
Each one's name was familiar to me through the newspapers.

"You'll know them all later, Madge," he said, and I felt a glow of
pleasure in the anticipation of meeting such interesting people.

Dicky opened his program, and I idly watched the people between me and
the stage. A few seats in front of us to the left I caught sight of
the woman who had claimed Dicky's acquaintance in the lobby. She
was signaling greetings to a number of acquaintances in a flamboyant
fashion. She would bow elaborately, then lift her hands together as if
shaking hands with the person she greeted.

"Who is she, Dicky?" I tried to make my voice careless. "I did not
catch her name when you introduced us."

"You'll probably see enough of her so you won't forget it," returned
Dicky, grinning. "She's one of the busiest little members of the
'Welcome to Our City Committee' in the set I train most with. She
won't rest till you've met all the boys and girls and been properly
lionized. She's one of the best little scouts going, and, if she'd cut
out the war paint and modulate that Comanche yell she calls her voice
there would be few women to equal her for brains or looks."

"But you haven't told me yet what her name is," I persisted.

"Well, in private life she's Mrs. Harry Underwood--that's Harry with
her--but she's better known all over the country as the cleverest
producer of illustrated jingles for advertising we have. Remember that
Simple Simon parody for the mincemeat advertisement we laughed over
some time ago, and I told you I knew the woman who did it? There she
is before you," and Dicky waved his hand grandiloquently.

"Lillian Gale!" I almost gasped the name.

"The same," rejoined Dicky, and turned again to his program, while I
sat in amazed horror, with all my oldtime theories crumbling around

For I had read of Lillian Gale and her married troubles. I knew that
Harry Underwood was her second husband and that she had been divorced
from her first spouse after a scandal which has been aired quite fully
in the newspapers. She had not been proved guilty, but her skirts
certainly had been smirched by rumor. According to the ideas which had
been mine, Dicky should have shrunk from having me ever meet such a
woman, let alone planning to have me on terms of intimacy with her.

What should I do?

When the curtain went down on the first act I turned to Dicky happily,
eager to hear his comments and filled with a throng of thoughts to
wipe away any remembrance from his mind of the unhappiness that had
promised to mar my evening, and which I feared he had read in my
eyes. But just as I opened my lips to speak, he interrupted me with a
startled exclamation:

"Sit down, Lil. Hello, Harry."

Dicky was on his feet in an instant and Lillian Gale was seated next
to me with Dicky and her husband leaning over us before I had fully
realized that the woman, the thought of whom had so disturbed my
evening, was so close to me.

"I want you to know Mrs. Graham, Harry," Dicky said.

I glowed inwardly at the note of pride in his voice and looked up to
meet a pair of brilliant black eyes looking at me with an appraising
approval that grated. He was a tall, good looking chap, with an air of
ennui that sat oddly on his powerful frame. I felt sure that I would
like Lillian Gale's husband as little as I did the woman herself.

I was glad when the lights dimmed slowly, that the second act
was about to begin. Mrs. Underwood rose with a noisy rustling of
draperies. She evidently was one of those women who can do nothing
quietly, and turning to me said, cordially:

"Be sure to wait for us in the lobby when this is over. We have a
plan," and before I had time to reply she had rustled away to her own
seat, her tall husband following at some little distance behind her,
but apparently oblivious of her presence as if she were a stranger.

I didn't much enjoy the second act, even though I realized that it was
one of the best comedy scenes I had ever seen, both in its lines and
its acting; but I had a problem to settle, and I longed for the quiet
hour in my own room which my mother had trained me to take every day
since childhood.

Of course, I realized that Lillian Gale meant to have us join them for
a supper party after the theatre. The invitation would be given to
us in the lobby after the last act. Upon the way that I received that
invitation must depend my future conduct toward this woman. I could
not make one of the proposed party and afterward decline to know her.
My instincts all cried out to me to avoid Lillian Gale. She outraged
all my canons of good taste, although even through my prejudices I had
to admit there was something oddly attractive about her in spite of
her atrocious make-up.

But, on the other hand, she and her husband appeared to be on most
intimate terms with Dicky. Would I seriously offend him if I refused
to treat his friends with friendliness equal to that which they seemed
ready to shower upon me?

"Would you like to walk a bit, Madge?" Dicky's voice started me into a
recollection of my surroundings. I had been so absorbed in the problem
of whether I should or should not accept Lillian Gale as an intimate
friend that I did not know that the curtain had fallen on the second
act, nor did I know how the act had ended. My problem was still
unsolved. I welcomed the diversion of a turn in the fresher aid of the

As we passed up the aisle I felt a sudden tug, then an ominous
ripping. The floating chiffon overdrapery of my gown had caught in
a seat. As Dicky bent to release me his face showed consternation.
Almost a length of the dainty fabric trailed on the floor.

I have schooled my self-repression for many a weary year. I feared my
gown, in which I had taken such pride, was ruined, but I would not let
any one know I cared about it. I gathered it up and smiled at Dicky.

"It really doesn't matter," I said. "If you'll leave me at the woman's
dressing room I think I can fix it up all right."

Dicky drew a relieved breath. His heartily murmured, "You're a
thoroughbred for sure, Madge," rewarded me for my composure. I was
just woman enough also to be comforted by the whispered comments of
two women who sat just behind the seat which caused the mischief.

"Isn't that a shame--that exquisite gown?" and the rejoinder. "But
isn't she game? I couldn't smile like that--I'd be crying my eyes out"

Dicky left me at the door of the dressing room, pressing a coin slyly
into my hand. "You'll tip the maid," he explained, and I blessed him
for his thoughtfulness. I had been too absorbed in my gown to think of
anything else.

An obsequious maid provided me with needle, thimble and thread. She
offered to mend the tear for me, but I had a horror of being made
conspicuous by her ministrations.

"If you'll let me have a chair in a corner I shall do very nicely,"
I told her, and was at once snugly ensconced near one of her mirrors
behind the very comfortable rampart of an enormously fat woman in an
exaggerated evening gown, who was devoting much pains and cosmetics
to her complexion. She looked as if she intended to remain at the
particular mirror all the intermission. I hoped she would stay there,
in spite the dagger's looks she was receiving from other complexion
repairers who coveted her place, for she was an effectual shield from
curious eyes.

To my joy I found that the gown was not ruined, and that it could be
repaired without much expense or trouble. Even the temporary mending I
was doing disguised the break. I was so interested in the mending that
I was completely lost to my surroundings, but the sound of a familiar
name brought me to with a jerk.

"Did you see the Dicky-bird and his marble bride?" A high-pitched yet
rather sweet voice asked the question, and a deep contralto answered

"Yes, indeed, and I saw the way Lillian Gale was rushing them. For
my part I don't think that's quite clubby of Lil. Of course she's got
into the way of thinking she has a first mortgage on the Dicky-bird,
but she might give that beautiful bride a chance for her life before
she forecloses."

"What's the secret of Lil's attraction for Dicky Graham, anyway?" the
soprano voice queried. "She's a good seven years older than he is, and
both her past and her youth are rather frayed at the edges, you know."

"Oh! love's young dream, and the habit of long association," returned
the contralto. I've heard that Lil was Dicky's first love. She was a
stunner for looks 19 years ago, and Dicky was just young enough to be
swept off his feet."

"That must have been before Lil married that unspeakable Morten, the
fellow she divorced, wasn't it?" interrupted the soprano.

"Yes, it was," the contralto answered. "I don't know whether Dicky has
been half in love with Lil all these years or not, but he certainly
has been her best friend. And now comes the news of his marriage to
somebody the crowd never heard of."

"Well, I think Lil may say good-by to her Dicky-bird now," returned
the first speaker. "That bride is quite the prettiest piece of flesh
and blood I've seen for many days."

"She is all of that," agreed the other, "She holds all the best cards,
but you'll find she is too statuesque and dignified to play them.
I saw her face tonight when Lil was talking to her. She is not
accustomed to Lil's kind, and she does not like her friendship with

"You can't blame her for that," interrupted the soprano. "I am sure I
would not like to see my husband dancing attendance on Lillian Gale."

"No, of course not," the contralto replied; "but she will be just
fool enough to show Dicky her feelings, and Dicky, who is the soul of
loyalty to his friends, will resent her attitude and try to make it up
to Lil and Harry by being extra nice to them. It's too bad. But then,
these marble statue sort of women always sacrifice their love for
their pride or their fool notions or propriety."

"It will be as good as a play to watch the developments," the soprano
commented. "Come on, we'll be too late for the curtain."

I felt suddenly faint, and the room appeared to whirl around me. The
maid touched me on the arm.

"Are you ill, madame? Here!" and she held a glass of water to my lips.
I drank it and motioned her away.

"I'll be all right in a moment," I murmured. "Thank you, but I am
quite well."

So this was what marriage would mean to me, a contest with another
woman for my husband's love! A fierce anger took possession of me.
One moment I regretted my marriage to Dicky, the next I was fiercely
primitive as any savage woman in my desire to crush my rival. I could
have strangled Lillian Gale in that moment. Then common sense came
back to me. What was it that woman had said? I had all the best cards
in my hand? Well! I would play them. I felt sure that Dicky loved
me. I would not jeopardize that love for a temporary pride. I would
eliminate Lillian Gale from Dicky's life, but I would bide my time to
do it.



If anybody wishes an infallible recipe for taking the romance out
of life, I can recommend washing a pile of dishes which have been left
over from the day before, especially if there be among them a number
of greasy pots and pans. Restoring order to a badly cluttered room is
another glamour destroyer, but the first prize, I stoutly affirm, goes
to the dishes.

An especially aggravating collection of romance shatterers awaited
me the morning after our visit to the theatre, and my first encounter
with Lillian Gale.

Dicky took a hurried breakfast and rushed off to the studio, while I
spent a dreary forenoon washing the dishes and putting the apartment
to rights. I dreaded the discussion with Dicky at luncheon. I
had insisted before my marriage that I must either do most of the
housework, or keep up some of my old work to add to our income. To
have a maid, while I did nothing to justify my existence save keep
myself pretty and entertain Dicky, savored too much to me of the harem

A mother of small children, a woman with a large house, one who had
old people to care for, or whose health was not good, was justified in
having help. But for me, well, strong, with a tiny apartment, and just
Dicky, to employ a maid without myself earning at least enough to pay
for the extra expense of having her--it was simply impossible. I had
been independent too long. The situation was galling.

The postman's ring interrupted my thoughts. I went to the door,
receiving a number of advertisements, a letter or two for Dicky, and
one, addressed in an unfamiliar handwriting, to myself. I opened it
and read it wonderingly.

"My dear Mrs. Graham:

"Our club is planning a course in history for the coming year. We need
an experienced conductor for the class, which will meet once a week.
Your name has been suggested to us as that of one who might be willing
to take up the work. The compensation will not be as large as that given
by the larger clubs for lectures, as we are a small organization, but I
do not think you will have to devote much of your time to the work
outside of the weekly meeting.

"Will you kindly let me know when I can meet you and talk this over with
you, if you decide to consider it?

"Yours very truly,


"Secretary Lotus Study Club,

"215 West Washington Avenue."

Had the solution to my problem come? Armed with this I could talk to
Dicky at luncheon without any fears.

The receipt of the letter put me in a royal good humor. I did not care
how little the compensation was, although I knew it would be far more
than enough to pay the extra expense of having a maid, an expense
which I was determined to defray.

Teaching or lecturing upon historical subjects was child's play to
me. I had specialized in it, and had been counted one of the most
successful instructors in that branch in the city. Woman's club work
was new to me, but the husband of one of my friends had once conducted
such a course, and I knew I could get all the information I needed
from him.

I thought of Dicky's possible objections, but brushed the thought
aside. He had objected to my going on with my regular school work and
I realized that the hours which I would have been compelled to give to
that work would have conflicted seriously with our home life. But here
was something that would take me away from home so little.

* * * * *

"About that servant question," I began, after Dicky was comfortably
settled and smiling over his cigar. "I will employ one, a first-class,
really competent housekeeper, if you will make no objection to this."

I opened the letter and handed it to him. He read it through, his face
growing angrier at every line. When he had finished he threw it on the

"Well, I guess not," he exclaimed. "I know that club game; it's the
limit. There's nothing in it. They'll pay only a beggarly sum, and
you'll be tied to that same afternoon once a week for a year. Suppose
we had something we wanted to do on that day? We would have to let it
go hang."

"I suppose if we had something we wanted to do on a day when you had
a commission to execute you would leave your work and go," I answered

"That's entirely different," returned Dicky. "I'm responsible for the
support of this family. You are not. All you have to do is to enjoy
yourself and make home comfortable for me."

We were interrupted by the door bell. Dicky went to the door while I
hastily dropped the portiers between the living room and the dining
room. I heard Dicky's deep voice in greeting.

"This is good of you, Lil," and Lillian Gale came into the room with
outstretched hand.

"Perhaps I shouldn't have come so soon," she said, "but you see I am
bound to know you, even if Dicky does spirit you away when we want you
to join us."

She threw him a laughing glance as she clasped my hand.

"I am so glad you have come," I said cordially, but inwardly I
fiercely resented her intrusion, as I deemed it.

But what was my horror to hear Dicky say casually:

"You've come at a most opportune time, Lil. Madge has had an offer
from some woman's club to do a lecturing stunt on history, her
specialty, you know, and she wants to take it. I wish you'd help me
persuade her out of it."

"I cannot imagine why we should trouble Mrs. Underwood with so
personal a matter," I heard myself saying faintly.

Mrs. Underwood laughed boisterously. "Why, I'm one of the family, my
dear child," she said heartily. Then she looked at me keenly.

"I might have known that one man would have no chance with two women,"
Dicky growled. His tone held capitulation. I knew I had won my battle.
But was it my victory or this woman's I so detested?

"Don't let this man bully you," she advised half-laughingly. "He's
perfectly capable of it. I know him. By all means accept the offer if
you think it's worth while. All these husbands are a bit archaic yet,
you know. They don't realize that women have joined the human race."

"Come, Dicky-bird," she rattled on as she saw his darkening face.
"Don't be silly. You'll have to give in. You're just 50 years behind
the times, you know."

During the remainder of Mrs. Underwood's brief call she ignored Dicky,
and devoted herself to me. There is no denying the fact that she has
great charm when she chooses to exercise it. Dicky, however, appeared
entirely oblivious of it, sitting in moody silence until she rose to

"You ought to preserve that grouch," she carelessly advised, as he
stood holding the door open for her. "Carefully corked in a glass
jar, it ought to keep to be given to your grandchildren as a horrible

Dicky grinned reluctantly and bowed low as she passed out of the room
with a cordial adieu to me, but no sooner had the door closed behind
her than he turned to me angrily.

"Look here, Madge," he exclaimed, "are you really in earnest about
taking that blasted position?"

"Why! of course I am," I answered. "It seems providential, coming
just as you insist upon having the maid. I can engage one with a clear
conscience now."

Dicky sprang to his feet with a muttered word that sounded
suspiciously like an oath, and began to walk rapidly up and down the
room, his hands behind his back, and his face dark with anger. Up
and down, up and down he paced, while I, sitting quietly in my chair,
waited, nerving myself for the scene I anticipated.

When it came, however, it surprised me with the turn it took. Dicky
stopped suddenly in his pacing, and coming swiftly over to me, dropped
on one knee beside my chair and put his arms around me.

"Sweetheart," he said softly, "I don't want to quarrel about this, nor
do I wish to be unreasonable about it. But, really, it means an awful lot
to me. I don't want you to do it. Won't you give it up for me?"

I returned Dicky's kiss, and held him tightly as I answered:

"Dear boy, I'll think it over very carefully. If I possibly can, I
will do as you wish. But, remember, I say if I can. I haven't made you
a definite promise yet."

"But you will, I know; that's my own dear girl. Good-by. I'll have to
rush back to the studio now."

Dicky's tone was light and confident as he rose. Life always has been
easy for Dicky. I heard him say once he never could remember the time
when he didn't get his own way.



As soon as Dicky had left the house I cleared away the dishes and
washed them and prepared a dessert for dinner. Then, finding the want
advertisements of the Sunday papers, I looked carefully through the
columns headed "Situations Wanted, Female."

I clipped the advertisements and fastened each neatly to a sheet of
notepaper. Then I wrote beneath each one: "Please call Thursday or
Friday. Ask for Mrs. Richard Graham, Apartment 4, 46 East Twenty-ninth

I addressed the envelopes properly, inserted the answers in the
envelopes, sealed and stamped them, then ran out to the post box on
the corner with them. I walked back very slowly, for there was
nothing more that needed to be done, and I could put off no longer the
settling of my problem.

I locked the door of my room, pulled down the shade and, exchanging my
house dress for a comfortable negligee, lay down upon my bed to think
things out.

I tried to put myself in Dicky's place, and to understand his reasons
for objecting to my earning any money of my own. I sat upright in bed
as a thought flashed across my brain. Was that the reason? Were his
objections to this plan of mine what he pretended they were? Did he
really fear that I might have unpleasant publicity thrust upon me, and
that some of our pleasure plans might be spoiled by the weekly lecture
engagement? Or was he the type of man who could not bear his wife to
have money or plans or even thoughts which did not originate with him?

I resolved to find out just what motive was behind his objections. If
he were willing that I should try to earn money in some other way
I would gladly refuse this offer. But if he were opposed to my ever
having any income of my own the issue might as well come now as later.

A loud ringing at the doorbell awakened me.

For a moment I could not understand how I came to be in bed. Then
I remembered and throwing off my negligee and putting on a little
afternoon gown, I twisted up my hair into a careless knot and hurried
to the door. The ring had been the postman's. The afternoon newspapers
lay upon the floor. With them was a letter with my former name upon
it in a handwriting that I knew. It had been forwarded from my old
boarding house. The superscription looked queer to me, as if it were
the name of some one I had known long ago.

"Miss Margaret Spencer," and then, in the crabbed handwriting of my
dear old landlady, "care of Mrs. Richard Graham."

I opened the letter slowly. It bore a New Orleans heading, and a date
three days before.

"Dear little girl:

"A year is a long time between letters, isn't it? But you know I told
you when I left that the chances were Slim for getting a letter back
from the wild territory where I was going, and I found when I reached
there that 'slim' was hardly the word. I wrote you twice, but have
no hope that the letters ever reached you. But now I am back in God's
country, or shall be when I get North, and of course, my first line
is to you. I am writing this to the old place, knowing it will be
forwarded if you have left there.

"I shall be in New York two weeks from today, the 24th. Of course I
shall go to my old diggings. Telephone me there, so that I can see you
as soon as possible. I am looking forward to a real dinner, at a real
restaurant, with the realest girl in the world opposite me the first
day I strike New York, so get ready for me. I do hope you have been
well and as cheerful as possible. I know what a struggle this year
must have been for you.

"Till I see you, dear, always your


I finished the reading of the letter with mingled feelings of joy and
dismay. Joy was the stronger, however. Dear old Jack was safe at home.
But there were adjustments which I must make. I had my marriage to
explain to Jack, and Jack to explain to Dicky. Nothing but this letter
could have so revealed to me the strength of the infatuation for Dicky
which had swept me off my feet and resulted in my marriage after only
a six months' acquaintance. Reading it I realized that the memory of
Jack had been so pushed into the background during the past six months
that I never had thought to tell Dicky about him.

"You've made a great conquest," said Dicky that evening when we were
finishing dinner, "Lil thinks you're about the nicest little piece of
calico she has ever measured--those were her own words. She's planning
a frolic for the crowd some night at your convenience."

"That is awfully kind of her. Where did you see her." I prided myself
on my careless tone, but Dicky gave me a shrewd glance.

"Why, at the studio, of course. Her studio is on the same floor as
mine, you know. Atwood and Barker and she and I are all on one floor,
and we often have a dish of tea together when we are not rushed."

I busied myself with the coffee machine until I could control my
voice. How I hated these glimpses of the intimate friendship which
must exist between my husband and this woman!

"I suppose we ought to have them all over some night," I said at last,
"but I'll have to add a few things to our equipment, and wait until I
get a maid."

"That will be fine," Dicky assented cordially, pushing back his chair.
"Did the papers come? I'll look them over for a little. Whistle when
you're ready and I'll wipe the dishes for you."

He strolled into the living room, and I suddenly remembered that I
had laid my letter from Jack on the table, with its pages scattered so
that any one picking them up could not help seeing them.

I had forgotten all about the letter. I had meant to show it to Dicky
after I had explained about Jack. It was not quite the letter for a
bridegroom to find without expectation. I realized that.

I could not get the letter without attracting his attention. I waited,
every nerve tense, listening to the sounds in the next room. I heard
the rustling of the newspaper; then a sudden silence told me his
attention had been arrested by something. Would he read the letter? I
did not think so. I knew his sense of honor was too keen for that, but
I remembered that the last page with its signature was at the top of
the sheets as I laid them down. That was enough to make any loving
husband reflect a bit.

How would Dicky take it? I wondered. I was soon to know. I Heard
him crush the paper in his hand, then come quickly to the kitchen. I
pretended to be busy with the dishes, but he strode over to me, and
clutching me by the shoulder with a grip that hurt, thrust the letter
before my face, and said hoarsely:

"What does this mean?"

The last words of Jack's letter danced before my eyes, Dicky's hand
was shaking so.

"Till I see you, dear. Always Jack."

Dicky's face was not a pleasant sight. It repulsed and disgusted me.
Subconsciously I was contrasting the way in which he calmly expected
me to accept his friendship for Lillian Gale, and his behavior over
this letter. Five minutes earlier I would have explained to him fully.
I resolved now to put my friendship for Jack upon the same basis as
his for Mrs. Underwood.

So I looked at him coolly. "Have you read the letter?" I asked

"You know I have not read the letter." he snarled. "It lay on the
papers. I could not help but see this--this--whatever it is," he
finished lamely, "and I have come straight to you for an explanation."

"Better read the letter," I advised quietly. "I give you full

I could have laughed at Dicky, if I had been less angry. He was so
like an angry, curious child in his eagerness to know everything about

"You have no brother. Is this man a relative?"

"No," I returned demurely.

"An old lover then, I suppose a confident one, I should judge by the
tone of the letter. Won't it be too cruel a blow to him when he finds
his dear little girl is married?"

Dicky's tone fairly dripped with irony. "He will be surprised
certainly," I answered, "but as he never was my lover, I don't think
it will be any blow to him."

"Who is he, anyway? Why have you never told me about him? What does he
look like?"

Dicky fairly shot the questions at me. I turned and went into my room.
There I rummaged in a box of old photographs until I found two fairly
good likenesses of Jack. I carried them to the kitchen and put them in
Dicky's hands. He glared at them, then threw them on the table.

"Humph! Looks like a gorilla with the mumps," he growled. "Who is this
precious party, then, if he is not a lover or a relative?"

"He is an old and dear friend. His friendship means as much to me
as--well--say Lillian Gale's means to you."

Dicky stared at me a long, long look as if he had just discovered me.
Then he turned on his heel.

"Well, I'll be--" I did not find out what he would be, for he went out
and slammed the door.

I sat down to a humiliating half-hour's thought. It isn't a bad idea
at times to "loaf and invite your soul," and then cast up account with
it. My account looked pretty discouraging.

Dicky and I had been married a little over two weeks. Two weeks
of idiotically happy honeymooning, and then the last three days of
quarrels, reconciliations, jealousies, petty bickerings and the shadow
of real issues between us.

Was this marriage--heights of happiness, depths of despair, with the
humdrum of petty differences between?



The chiming of the clock an hour after Dicky had gone to the studio
after our little noon dinner next day warned me that I was not dressed
and that the cooks whose advertisements I had answered might call at
any minute. I dressed and arranged my hair. Just as I put in the last
hairpin the bell rang.

Two women, covertly eyeing each other with suspicion, stood in the
hallway when I opened the door. To my invitation to come in each
responded "Thank you," and the entrance of both was quiet. When they
sat down in the chairs I drew forward for them I mentally appraised
them for a moment.

One was a middle-aged woman of the strongly marked German type. Clean,
trig, grim, she spelled efficiency in every line of her body. The
other, a tall Polish girl, of perhaps 22, was also extremely neat, but
her pretty brown hair was blown around her face and her blue eyes were
fairly dancing with eagerness, in contrast to the stolid expression of
the other woman. As I faced them, the older woman compressed her lips
in a thin line, while the girl smiled at me in friendly fashion.

"You came in answer to the advertisements?" I queried.

The older woman silently held forth my letter and two or three other
papers pinned together. I saw that they were references written in
varying feminine chirography. Her silence was almost uncanny.

"Oh, yes, Misses," the Polish girl exclaimed. "I put my--what do you
call it? My--"

"Advertisement," I suggested, smiling. Her good-nature was infectious.

"Oh, yes, ad-ver-tise-ment, in the paper, Sunday. Today your letter
came, the first letter. I guess hard times now. Nobody wants maids.
I come right queeck. I can do good work, very good. I have good
references. You got maid yet?"

"Not yet," I answered, and turned to the other woman.

According to all my theories and my training I should have chosen the
older woman. Efficiency always has been an idol of mine. It was my
slogan in my profession. It is my humiliation that I seem to have
none of it in my housework. The German woman evidently was capable of
administering my household much better than I could do it. Perhaps it
was because of this very reason that I found myself repelled by her,
and subtly drawn by the younger woman's smiling enthusiasm.

"Have you much company, and does your husband bring home friends
without notice?" The older woman's harsh tones broke in.

The questions turned the scale. From the standpoint of strict
justice, the standard from which I always had tried to reason, she was
perfectly justified in asking the questions before she took the place.
But intuition told me that our home life would be a dreary thing with
this martinet in the kitchen.

"That will not trouble you," I said, "for I do not believe I wish your
services. Here is your car fare, and thank you for coming."

The woman took the car fare with the same stolidity she had shown
through the whole interview. "I do not think I would like you for a
madam, either," she said quietly as she went out.

The Polish girl bounced from her seat as soon as the door was closed.

"She no good to talk to you like that," she exclaimed. "She old crank,
anyway. You not like her. See me--I young, strong; I cook, wash, iron,
clean. I do everything. You do notting. I cook good, too; not so much
fancy, but awful good. My last madam, I with her one year. She sick,
go South yesterday. She cry, say 'I so sorry, Katie; you been so good
to me.' I cry, too. Read what she say about me."

I could read between the lines of the rather odd letter of
recommendation the girl handed me. I had dealt with many girls of
Katie's type in my teaching days. I knew the childish temper, the
irritating curiosity, the petty jealousy, the familiarity which one
not understanding would deem impertinence, with which I would have
to contend if I engaged her. But the other applicant for my work, the
grim vision who had just left, decided me. I would try this eager girl
if her terms were reasonable--and they were.

As I preceded her into the kitchen I had a sudden qualm. I knew
Dicky's fastidious taste, and that underneath all his good-natured
unconventionality he had rigid ideas of his own upon some topics. I
happened to remember that nothing made him so nervous and irritable
as bad service in a restaurant. His idea of a good waiter was a
well-trained automaton with no eyes or ears. How would he like this
enthusiastic, irrepressible girl? It was too late now, however. I was
committed to a week of her service.

I had a luxurious afternoon. Katie in the kitchen sang softly over her
work some minor-cadenced Polish folk-song, and I nestled deep in
an armchair by the sunniest window, dipped deep into the pages of
magazines and newspapers which I had not read. I realized with a
start that I was out of touch with the doings of the outside world,
something which had not happened to me before for years, save in the
few awful days of my mother's last illness. I really must catch up

I was so deep in a vivid description of the desolation in Belgium that
I did not hear Dicky enter. I started as he kissed me.

"Headache better, sweetheart?" he added, lover-like remembering
and making much of the slight headache I had had when he left that
morning. "It must be, or you wouldn't be able to read that horror." He
closed the magazine playfully and drew me to my feet.

"I am perfectly well," I replied, "and I have good news for you. We
have a maid, a trifle rough in her manner, but one who I think will be
very good."

"That's fine," Dicky said heartily. "I'd much rather come home to find
you comfortably reading than scorching your face and reddening your
hands in a kitchen."

"Say, Missis Graham!"

Katie came swiftly into the room, and I heard an exclamation of
surprise from Dicky.

"Why, Katie, wherever did you come from?"

But Katie, with a scream of fear, her face white with terror, backed
into the kitchen. I heard her opening the door where she had put her
hat and cloak, then the slamming of the kitchen door.

I looked at Dicky in amazement. What did it all mean?

He caught up his hat and dashed to the front door.

"Quick, Madge!" he called. "Follow her out the kitchen door as fast as
you can. I'll meet you at the servant's entrance! I wouldn't let her
get away for a hundred dollars!"

I obeyed Dicky's instructions, but with a feeling of disgust creeping
over me. I have always hated a scene, and this performance savored too
much of moving picture melodrama to suit me.

I hurried down the two flights of stairs and on toward the servant's
entrance. I was almost there when Katie came flying back, almost into
my arms.

"Oh, Missis Graham," she moaned.

"You kind lady. I pay it all back. I always have it with me. Don't let
him put me in prison. I work, work my fingers to the bone for you. If
you only not let him put me in prison."

Dicky came up behind us. As she saw him she shrank closer to me in a
pitiful, frightened way, and put out both her hands as if to push him

"Don't be frightened, Katie," he said. Come to the house and tell me
about it."

"Bring her into the living room and get her quieted before I talk to
her," suggested Dicky, as he disappeared into his room after I had got
her upstairs.

Bewildered and displeased at this bizarre situation which had been
thrust upon me, I ushered Katie into the living room and removed her
hat and coat. She trembled violently.

I went to the dining room and from a decanter in the sideboard poured
a glass of wine and, bringing it back, pressed it to her lips. She
drank it, and the color gradually came back to her face and the
twitching of her muscles lessened.

When she was calmer I took her hands in mine and, looking her full
in the face in the manner which I had sometimes used to quiet an
hysterical pupil, I said slowly:

"Listen to me, Katie. You are not going to be put in prison. Mr.
Graham will not harm you in the least. But he wishes to talk to you,
and you must listen to what he has to say."

Her answer was to seize my hand and cover it with tearful kisses. I
detest any exhibition of emotion, and this girl's utter abandonment
to whatever grief or terror was hers irritated me. But I tried not to
show my feelings. I merely patted her head and said:

"Come, Katie, you must stop this and listen to Mr. Graham."

Katie obediently wiped her eyes and sat up very straight.

"I am all right now," she said quaveringly. "He can come. I tell him

Still very nervous but calmer than she had been, Katie remained quiet
when I raised my voice to reach Dicky waiting in the adjoining room.

"Oh, Dicky," I called, "you may come now."

Dicky drew a low chair in front of the couch where we sat.

"Tell me first, Katie," he said kindly, "why do you think I want to
put you in prison? Because of the money? Never mind that. I want to
talk to you of something else."

But Katie was hysterically tugging at the neck of her gown. From
inside her bodice she took a tiny chamois skin bag, and ripping it
open took out a carefully folded bill and handed it to Dicky.

"I never spend that money," she said. "I never mean to steal it. But
I had to go away queeck from your flat and I never, never dare come
back, give you the money. After two month, send my cousin to the flat,
but he say you move, no know where. There I always keep the money
here. I think maybe some time I find out where you live and write a
letter to you, send the money."

Dicky took the bill and unfolded it curiously. A brown stain ran
irregularly across one-half of it.

"Well, I'll be eternally blessed," he ejaculated, "if it isn't the
identical bill I gave her. Ten-dollar bills were not so plentiful
three years ago, and I remember this one so distinctly because of the
stain. The boys used to say I must have murdered somebody to get it,
and that it was stained with blood."

He turned to Katie again.

"The money is nothing, Katie. Why did you run away that day? I never
have been able to finish that picture since."

Katie's eyes dropped. Her cheeks flushed.

"I 'shamed to tell," she murmured.

Dicky muttered an oath beneath his breath. "I thought so," he said
slowly, then he spoke sternly:

"Never mind being ashamed to tell, Katie. I want the truth. I worked
at your portrait that morning, and then I had to go to the studio.
When I came back you had gone, bag and baggage, and with, the money I
gave you to pay the tailor. I never could finish that picture, and it
would have brought me a nice little sum."

My brain was whirling by this time. Dicky in a flat with this ignorant
Polish girl paying his tailor bills, and posing for portraits. What
did it all mean?

"Where did you go?" Dicky persisted.

Katie lifted her head and looked at him proudly.

"You know when you left that morning, Mr. Lestaire, he was painting,
too? Well, Mr. Graham, I always good girl in old country and here. I
go to confession. I always keep good. Mr. Lestaire, he kiss me, say
bad tings to me. He scare me. I afraid if I stay I no be good girl.
So I run queeck away. I never dare come bade. That Mr. Lestaire he one
bad man, one devil."

Dicky whistled softly.

"So that was it?" he said. "Well that was just about what that
pup would do. That was one reason I got out of our housekeeping
arrangements. He set too swift a pace for me, and that was going some
in those days."

He turned to Katie, smiling.

"You see you don't have to be afraid any more. I'm a respectable
married man now, and it's perfectly safe for you to work here. Mrs.
Graham will take care of you. Run along about your work now, that's a
good girl."

Katie giggled appreciatively. Her mercurial temperament had already
sent her from the depths to the heights.

"The dinner all spoiled while I cry like a fool," she said. "You ready
pretty soon. I serve."

She hastened to the kitchen, and I turned to Dicky inquiringly.

"I suppose you think you have gotten into a lunatic asylum, Madge. Of
all the queer things that Katie should apply for a job here and that
you should take her."

"I didn't know you ever kept house in a flat before, Dicky."

"It was a very short experience," he returned, "only three months.
Four of us, Lester, Atwood, Bates and myself pooled our rather scanty
funds and rented a small apartment. We advertised for a general
housekeeper, and Katie answered the advertisement. She had been over
from Poland only a year at a cousin's somewhere on the East side,
and she used to annoy us awfully getting to the flat so early in the
morning and cleaning our living room while we were trying to sleep.
But she was a crack-a-jack worker, so we put up with her superfluous
energy in cleaning. Then one day I discovered her standing with
a letter in her hand looking off into space with her eyes full of
misery. She had heard of some relative."

"Of course you wanted to paint her," I suggested.

"You bet," Dicky returned. "The idea came to me in a flash. You
can see what a heroic figure she was. I had her get into her Polish
dress--she had brought one with her from the old country--and I
painted her as Poland--miserable, unhappy Poland. Gee! but I'm glad
you happened to run across her. We'll put up with anything from her
until I get that picture done."

Try as I might I could not share Dicky's enthusiasm. I knew it was
petty, but the idea of my maid acting as Dicky's model jarred my ideas
of the fitness of things.

But I had sense enough to hold my peace.



I know of nothing more exasperating to a hostess than to have her
guests come to her home too early. It is bad enough to wait a meal for
a belated guest, but to have some critical woman casually stroll in
before one is dressed, or has put the final touches--so dear to every
housewifely heart--on all the preparations, is simply maddening.

I am no exception to the rule. As I heard the voices of Lillian Gale
and her husband and I realized that they had arrived at 3:30 in the
afternoon, when they had been invited for an evening chafing dish
supper, I was both disheartened and angry.

But, of course, there was but one thing to do, much as I hated to do
it. I must go into the living room and cordially welcome these people.
As I slipped off my kitchen apron I thought of the hypocrisy which
marks most social intercourse. What I really wanted to say to my
guests was this:

"Please go home and come again at the proper time. I am not ready to
receive you now."

I had a sudden whimsical vision of the faces of Dicky and the
Underwoods if I should thus speak my real thoughts. The thought
in some curious fashion made it easier for me to cross the room to
Lillian Gale's side, extend my hand and say cordially:

"How good of you to come this afternoon!"

"I know it is unpardonable," Lillian's high pitched voice answered.
"You invited us for the evening, not for the afternoon, but I told
Harry that I was going to crucify the conventions and come over early,
so I would have a chance to say more than two words to you before the
rest get here."

Harry Underwood elbowed his wife away from my side with a playful
push, and held out his hand. His brilliant, black eyes looked down
into mine with the same lazy approving expression that I had resented
when Dicky introduced me to him at the theatre.

I cudgelled my brain in vain for some airy nothing with which to
answer his nonsense. I never have had the gift of repartee. I can talk
well enough about subjects that interest me when I am conversing with
some one whom I know well, but the frothy persiflage, the light banter
that forms the conversation's stock in trade of so many women, is an
alien tongue to me.

"You are just as welcome as Mrs. Underwood is," I said heartily at
last. Fortunately he did not read the precisely honest meaning hidden
in my words.

"Come on, Harry, into my room," urged Dicky, taking him by the arm.
"I've got a special brand cached in there, and had to hide it so mein
frau wouldn't drink it up."

I suppose my face reflected the dismay I felt at this intimation that
the women would begin drinking so early. I feared for the repetition
of the experience of Friday evening. But the laws of conventions and
hospitality bound me. I felt that I could not protest. Mrs. Underwood
apparently had no such scruples. She clutched Dicky by the arm and
swung him around facing her.

"Now, see here, my Dicky-bird," she began, "you begin this special
bottle kind of business and I walk out of here. I should think you and
Harry would have had enough of this the other evening. We came over
here today for a little visit, and tonight we'll sit on either the
water wagon or the beer wagon, just as Mrs. Graham says. But you boys
won't start any of these special drinks, or I'll know the reason why."

"Oh, cut it out, Lil," her husband said, not crossly, but
mechanically, as if it were a phrase he often used. But Dicky laughed
down at her, although I knew by the look in his eyes that he was much

"All right, Lil," he said easily. "I suppose Madge will fall in
gratitude on your neck for this when she gets you into the seclusion
of her room. You haven't any objection to our having a teenty-weenty
little smoke, have you, mamma dear?"

"Go as far as you like," she returned, ignoring the sneers.

As I turned and led the way to my room, I was conscious of curiously
mingled emotions. Relief at the elimination of the special bottle with
its inevitable consequences and resentment that Dicky should so
weakly obey the dictum of another woman, battled with each other. But
stronger than either was a dawning wonder. From the conversation I
had overheard in the theatre dressing-room and trifling things in
Mrs. Underwood's own conduct, I had been led to believe that she was
sentimentally interested in Dicky, and that some time in the future
I might have to battle with her for his affections. But her speech to
him which I had just heard savored more of the mother laying down
the law to a refractory child than it did of anything approaching
sentiment. Could it be, I told myself, that I had been mistaken?

Our husbands looked exceedingly comfortable when we rejoined them, for
they were smoking vigorously and discussing the merits of two boxers
Mr. Underwood had recently seen. As we entered the room both men,
of course, sprang to their feet, and I had a moment's opportunity to
contrast their appearance.

Dicky is slender, lithe, with merry brown eyes and thick, brown hair,
with a touch of auburn in it, and just enough suspicion of a curl to
give him several minutes' hard brushing each day trying to keep it
down. Harry Underwood, taller even than Dicky, who is above the medium
height, is massive in frame, well built, muscular, with black hair
tinged with gray, and the blackest, most piercing eyes I have ever
seen. I was proud of Dicky as I stood looking at them, while
Lillian exchanged some merry nonsense with Dicky, but I also had to
acknowledge that Harry Underwood was a splendid specimen of manhood.

As if he had read my thoughts, his eyes caught mine and held them. To
all appearances he was listening to the banter of Dicky and his wife,
but there was an inscrutable look in his eyes, an enigmatical smile
upon his lips, as he looked at me that vaguely troubled me. His
glance, his smile, seemed significant somehow, as if we were old
friends who held some humorous experience in common remembrance. And I
had never seen him but once before in my life.

I shrugged my shoulders, ever so slightly. It is a habit of mine when
I am displeased, or wish to throw off some unpleasant sensation of
memory. I was almost unconscious of having used the gesture. But
Harry Underwood crossed the room as if it had been a signal, and stood
looking down quizzically at me.

"Little lady," he began, "you shouldn't hold a grudge so well. It
doesn't harmonize with your eyes and your mouth. They were meant for
kindness, not severity. If there is any way that I can show you I am
humbled to the dust for coming here I'll do any penance you say."

"You must be mistaken, Mr. Underwood." I strove to control my voice.
"I have no grudge whatever against you, so you see you are absolved in
advance from my penance."

"Will you shake hands on it?" He put out his large, white, beautifully
formed hand and grasped mine before I had half extended it.

I felt myself flushing hotly. Of all the absolutely idiotic things
in the world, this standing hand in hand with Harry Underwood, in a
formal pact of friendship or forgiveness or whatever he imagined the
hand-clasp signified, was the most ridiculous. He was quick enough
to fathom my distaste, but he clasped my hand tighter and, bending
slightly so that he could look straight into my eyes he said, lazily

"You are the most charming prevaricator I know. You come pretty near
to hating me, little lady. But you won't dislike me long. I'll make a
bet with myself on that."

"Hold that pose just a minute. Don't move. It's simply perfect."

Lillian Underwood's merry voice interrupted her husband's declaration.
With clever mimicry she struck the attitude of a nervous photographer
just ready to close the shutter of his camera. Dicky stood just behind
her too, also smiling, but while Lillian's merriment evidently was
genuine, I detected a distaste for the proceedings behind Dicky's
smile, which I knew was forced.

Lillian slipped in an imaginary plate, then springing to one side
stood pretending to clasp the bulb of the shutter in her hand, while
she counted: "One, two, three, four, five--thank you!"

"Now if you will just change your expressions," she rattled on.
"Harry, why don't you take both her hands? Then if Mrs. Graham will
smile a little we will have a sentimental gem, or if she makes her
expression even a trifle more disapproving than it is I can label it,
'Unhand me, villain.'"

"I never take a dare," returned her husband, and snatched my other
hand. But I was really angry by this time, and I wrenched my hands
away with an effort and threw my head a trifle haughtily, although
fortunately I was able to control my words:

"Do you know, people, that there will be no food for you tonight
unless I busy myself with its preparations immediately? Mrs.
Underwood, won't you entertain those boys and excuse me for a little

I went into the dining room and put on the kitchen apron I had taken
off when I heard the voices of my early guests. Almost immediately
Lillian appeared arrayed in the apron I had given her. She came up to
the table and surveyed it with appraising eyes.

"I am glad of this chance to speak with you alone, for I want to
explain to you about him."

She stopped with an embarrassed flush. I gazed at her in amazement.
Lillian Underwood flustered! I could not believe my eyes.

"You are not used to us or our ways, or I shouldn't bother to tell you
this. But I can see that you are much annoyed at Harry, and I don't
blame you. But you mustn't mind him. He is really harmless. He falls
in love with every new face he sees, has a violent attack, then gets
over it just as quickly. You are an entirely new type to him, so I
suppose his attack this time will be a little more prolonged. He'll
make violent love to you behind my back or before my face, but you
mustn't mind him. I understand, and I'll straighten him out when he
gets too annoying."

The embarrassed flush had disappeared by this time. She was talking
in as cool and matter-of-fact manner as if she had been discussing the
defection of a cook.

My first emotion was resentment against my husband.

Why, I asked myself passionately, had Dicky insisted upon my
friendship with these people? Suppose they were his most intimate
friends? I was his wife, and I had nothing whatever in common with
them. Knowing them as well as he did, he must have known Harry
Underwood's propensities. He must also have known the gossip that
connected his own name with Lillian's. He should have guarded me from
any contact with them. I felt my anger fuse to a white heat against
both my husband and Lillian.

An ugly suspicion crossed my mind. Lillian Gale's absolute calmness
in the face of her husband's wayward affections was unique in my
experience of women. Was the secret of her indifference, a lack of
interest in her own husband or an excess of interest in mine? Did she
hope perhaps to gain ground with Dicky with the development of this
situation? Was her warning to me only part of a cunningly constructed
plan, whereby she would stimulate my interest in Harry Underwood?

I was ashamed of my thoughts even as they came to me. Lillian Gale
seemed too big a woman, too frank and honest of countenance for such
a subterfuge. But I could not help feeling all my old distrust and
dislike of the woman rush over me. I had a struggle to keep my voice
from being tinged with the dislike I felt as I answered her:

"I am sure you must be mistaken, Mrs. Underwood. Such a possibility as
that would be unspeakably annoying We will not consider it."

"I think you will find you will have to consider it," she returned
brusquely, with a curious glance at me "But we do not need to spoil
our afternoon discussing it."



It was well after 7 o'clock when the ringing of the door bell told me
that the Lesters had come. Dicky welcomed them and introduced me
to them. Mrs. Lester was a pretty creature, birdlike, in her small
daintiness, and a certain chirpy brightness. I judged that her
mentality equalled the calibre of a sparrow, but I admitted also that
the fact did not detract from her attractiveness. She was the sort of
woman to be protected, to be cherished.

"I'm afraid I shall be very dull tonight. I am so worried about
leaving the baby. She's only six months old, you know, and, I have had
my mother with me ever since she was born until two weeks ago, so I
have never left her with a maid before. This girl we have appears very
competent, says she is used to babies, but I just can't help being as
nervous as a cat."

"Are you still worrying about that baby?" Mrs. Underwood's loud voice
sounded behind us. "Now, look here, Daisy, have a little common sense.
You have had that maid over a year; she has been with your mother and
you since the baby was born; there's a telephone at her elbow, and you
are only five blocks away from home. Wasn't the child well when you

"Sleeping just like a kitten," the proud mother answered. "You just
ought to have seen her, one little hand all cuddled up against her
face. I just couldn't bear to leave her."

Over Lillian Gale's face swept a swift spasm of pain. So quickly was
it gone that I would not have noticed it, had not my eyes happened to
rest on her face when Mrs. Lester spoke of her baby. Was there a child
in that hectic past of hers? I decided there must be.

"Why don't you telephone now and satisfy yourself that the baby is all
right, and instruct the maid to call you if she sees anything unusual
about her?" I queried.

"Tell her you are going to telephone every little while. Then she will
be sure to keep on the job," cynically suggested Mrs. Underwood.

"Oh, that will be just splendid," chirped Mrs. Lester. "Thank you so
much, Mrs. Graham. Where is the telephone?"

"Dicky will get the number for you," said Mrs. Underwood, ushering her
into the living room. I heard her shrill voice.

"Oh, Dicky-bird, please get Mrs. Lester's apartment for her. She wants
to be sure the baby's all right."

Then I heard a deeper voice. "For heaven's sake, Daisy, don't make a
fool of yourself. The kid's all right." That was Mr. Lester's voice,
of course. Neither the tones of Dicky nor Harry Underwood had the
disagreeable whining timbre of this man's.

Lillian's retort made me smile, it was so characteristic of her.

"Who unlocked the door of your cage, anyway? Get back in, and if you
growl again tonight there will be no supper for you."

We all laughed and I went to help Katie put the finishing touches to
our dinner. When I returned Mrs. Lester was seated in an armchair in
the corner as if on a throne, with Harry Underwood in an attitude of
exaggerated homage before her.

I felt suddenly out of it all, lonely. These people were nothing
to me, I said to myself. They were not my kind. I had a sudden
homesickness for the quiet monotony of my life before I married Dicky.
I thought of the few social evenings I had spent in the days before
I met Dicky, little dinners with the principals and teachers I had
known, when I had been the centre of things, when my opinions had been
referred to, as Lillian Gale's were now.

I went through the rest of the evening in a daze of annoyance and
regret from which I did not fully emerge until we were all at the
dinner table, with Dicky officiating at the chafing dish. Then
suddenly Mrs. Lester turned to me, her face filled with nervous fears.

"Oh, Mrs. Graham, I don't believe I can wait for anything. I am
getting so nervous about baby. I know it's awful to be so silly, but I
just can't help it."

"Daisy!" Her husband's voice was stern, his face looked angry. "Do
stop that nonsense. We are certainly not going home now."

His wife seemed to shrink into herself. Her pretty face, with its
worried look, was like that of a little girl grieving over a doll. I
felt a sudden desire to comfort her.

"I think you are worrying yourself unnecessarily, Mrs. Lester," I said
in an undertone. We were sitting next each other, and I could speak to
her without her husband overhearing. "When you telephoned the maid an
hour ago, the baby was all right, wasn't she?"

"Yes, I know," she returned dejectedly. "But I have heard such
dreadful things about maids neglecting babies left in their care.
Suppose she should leave her alone in the apartment, and something
should catch fire and--"

"See here, Daisy!" Lillian Gale joined our group, coffee cup in hand.
"Drink your coffee and your cordial. Then pretty soon, if you feel you
really must go, I'll gather up Harry and start for home. Then you can
make Frank go."

"You are awfully good, Lillian." Mrs. Lester looked gratefully up at
the older woman. "I know I am as silly as I can be, but you can't know
how I am imagining every dreadful thing in the calendar."

"I know all about it," Mrs. Underwood returned shortly, almost curtly,
and walked away toward the group of men at the other side of the

"I never knew that she ever had a child." Mrs. Lester's eyes were wide
with amazement as they met mine.

"Neither did I." Purposely I made my tone non-committal. From the look
in Lillian Gale's eyes when Mrs. Lester told us in my room of the way
the baby looked asleep, I knew that some time she must have had a baby
of her own in her arms.

But I detest gossip, no matter how kindly--if, indeed, gossip can ever
be termed kindly. I could not discuss Mrs. Underwood's affairs with
any one, especially when she was a guest of mine.

"But she must have had a baby some time," persisted little Mrs.
Lester. Her anxiety about her own baby appeared to be forgotten for
the moment. "It must have been a child of that awful man she divorced,
or who divorced her. I never did get that story right."

I looked around the room. How I wished some one would interrupt our
talk. I could not listen to Mrs. Lester's prattle without answering
her, and I did not wish to express any opinion on the subject.

As if answering my unspoken wish, Harry Underwood rose and came toward

"Were you looking for me?" he queried audaciously.

I had a sudden helpless, angry feeling that this man had been covertly
watching me. Annoyed as I was, I was glad that he had interrupted
us, for his presence would effectually stop Mrs. Lester's surmises
concerning his wife.

"Indeed I was not looking for you," I replied spiritedly. "But I
am glad you are here. Please talk to Mrs. Lester while I go to the
kitchen. I must give some directions to Katie."

"Of course that's a terribly hard task"--he began, smiling
mischievously at Mrs. Lester.

But he never finished his sentence. A loud, prolonged ringing of
the doorbell startled us all. It was the sort of ring one always
associates with an urgent summons of some sort.

"Oh! my baby. I know something's happened to the baby and they've come
to tell me."

Mrs. Lester's words rang high and shrill. They changed to a shriek as
Dicky opened the door and fell back startled.

For past him rushed a girl with a fear-distorted face holding in her
arms a baby that to my eyes looked as if it were dead.

But I had presence of mind enough to quiet Mrs. Lester's hysterical

"That is not your baby," I said sharply, grasping her by the arm. "It
is the child from across the hall!"

There is nothing in the world so pitiful to witness as the suffering
of a baby.

We all realized this as the maid held out to us the tiny infant, rigid
and blue as if it were already dead.

"Is the baby dead?" she gasped, her face convulsed with grief and
fear. "My madam is at the theatre, and the baby has been fretty for
two hours, and just a minute ago he stiffened out like this. Oh, dear!
Oh, dear!" she began to sob.

"Stop that!" Lillian Gale's voice rang out like a trumpet. "The baby
is not dead. It is in a convulsion. Give it to me and run back to your
apartment and bring me some warm blankets."

Of the six people at our little chafing dish supper, so suddenly
interrupted, she was the only one who knew what to do. I had been able
to, quiet Mrs. Lester's hysteria by telling her at once that the
baby was not her own, as she had so widely imagined, but was helpless
before the baby's danger.

Lillian's orders came thick and fast. She dominated the situation and
swept us along in the fight to save the baby's life until the doctor,
who had been summoned, arrived.

The physician was a tall, thin, young man, with a look of efficiency
about him. He looked at the baby carefully, laid his hand upon the
tiny forehead, then straightened himself.

"Is there any way in which the child's parents can be found?" Mr.
Underwood evidently had told him of the nature of the seizure and the
absence of the parents on the way up.

Lillian Gale's face grew pale under her rouge.

"There is danger, doctor?" she asked quietly

"There is always danger in these cases," he returned quietly, but his
words were heard by a wild-eyed woman in evening dress who rushed
through the open door followed by a man as agitated as she.

I said an unconscious prayer of thankfulness.

The baby's mother had arrived.

It seemed a week, but it was in reality only two hours later when
Lillian Gale returned from the apartment across the hall, heavy eyed
and dishevelled, her gown splashed with water, her rouge rubbed off in
spots, her whole appearance most disreputable.

"The baby?" we all asked at once.

"Out of any immediate danger, the doctor says. The nurse came an hour
ago, but the child had two more of those awful things, and I was able
to help her. The mother is no good at all, one of those emotional
women whose idea of taking care of a baby is to shriek over it."

Her voice held no contempt, only a great weariness. I felt a sudden
rush of sympathetic liking for this woman, whom I had looked upon as
an enemy.

"What can I get you, Mrs. Underwood?" I asked. "You look so worn out."

"If Katie has not thrown out that coffee," she returned practically,
"let us warm it up."

I felt a foolish little thrill of housewifely pride. A few minutes
before her appearance I had gone into the kitchen and made fresh
coffee, anticipating her return. Katie, of course, I had sent to bed
after she had cleared the table and washed the silver. I had told her
to pile the dishes for the morning.

"I have fresh coffee all ready," I said. "I thought perhaps you might
like a cup. Sit still, and I'll bring it in."

Harry Underwood sprang to his feet. "I'll carry the tray for you."

I thought I detected a little quiver of pain on Mrs. Underwood's face.
Her husband had expressed no concern for her, but was offering to
carry my tray. Truly, the tables were turning. I had suffered because
of the rumors I had heard concerning this woman's regard for Dicky.
Was I, not meaning it, to cause her annoyance?

"Indeed you will do no such thing," I spoke playfully to hide my real
indignation at the man. "Dicky is the only accredited waiter around
this house."

"Card from the waiters' union right in my pocket," Dicky grinned, and
stretched lazily as he followed me to the kitchen.

We served the coffee, and Lillian and her husband went home. As the
door closed behind them Dicky came over to me and took me in his arms.

"Pretty exciting evening, wasn't it, sweetheart?" he said. "I'm afraid
you are all done out."

He drew me to our chair and we sat down together. I found myself
crying, something I almost never do. Dicky smoothed my hair tenderly,
silently, until I wiped my eyes. Then his clasp tightened around me.

"Tonight has taught me a lesson," he said. "Sometimes I have dreamed
of a little child of our own, Madge. But I would rather never have a
child than go through the suffering those poor devils had tonight. It
must be awful to lose a baby."

I hid my face in his shoulder. Not even to my husband could I confess
just then how the touch of the naked, rigid little body of that other
woman's child had sent a thrill of longing through me for a baby's
hands that should be mine.


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