the Park.  She lingered in the lonely evening over the ceremony of his bath, his undressing, his prayers, and the romping that was always the last thing.  For his sake, her love went out to meet the newcomer; another soft little Teddy to watch and bathe and rock to sleep; the reign of double-gowns and safety-pins and bottles again!  Writing Wallace one of the gossipy, detailed letters that acknowledged his irregular checks, she said that they must move in the fall.  They really, truly needed a better neighbourhood, a better nursery for “the children.”

One hot, heavy July morning she fell into serious musing over the news of Grandma Curley’s death.  Her son, a spoiled idler of forty, inherited the business.  He wanted to know if Mrs. Bannister could come back.  The house had never prospered so well as under her management.  She could make her own terms.

The sun was pouring into East Twenty-sixth Street, flashing an ugly glaring reflection against the awnings.  At nine, the day was burning hot.  Teddy, promised a trip to the Zoo, was loitering on the shady steps of the houses opposite, conscious of clean clothes, and of a holiday mood.  The street was empty; a hurdy-gurdy unseen poured forth a brassy flood of sound.  Trains, on the elevated road at the corner, crashed by.  Martie had been packing a lunch; she went slowly back to the cut loaf and the rapidly softening butter.

“Happy, Teddy?” she asked, when they had found seats in the train, and were rushing over the baking stillness of the city.

“Are you, Moth’?” he asked quickly.

She nodded, smiling.  But, for some reasons vaguely defined, she was heavy-hearted.  The city’s endless drama of squalor and pain was all about her; she could not understand, she could not help, she could not even lift her own little problem out of the great total of failures!  All day long the sense of impotence assailed her.

Wallace was at home, when they came back, heavily asleep across his bed.  Martie, with firmly shut lips, helped him into bed, and made the strong coffee for which he longed.  After drinking it, he gave her a resentful, painstaking account of his unexpected return.  His face was flushed, his voice thick.  She gathered that he had lost his position.

“He came right up to me before Young, d’ye see?  He put it up to me.  ‘Nelson,’ I says, ‘Nelson, this isn’t a straight deal!’ I says.  ’My stuff is my stuff,’ I says, ‘but this is something else again.’  ‘Wallie,’ he says, ‘that may be right, too.  But listen,’ he says.  I says, ‘I’m going to do damn little listening to you or Young!’ I says, ‘Cut that talk about my missing rehearsals—­’”

The menacing, appealing voice went on and on.  Martie watched him in something far beyond scorn or shame.  He had not shaved recently, his face was blotched.

“What else could I do, Mart?” he asked presently.  She answered with a long sigh: 

“Nothing, I suppose, Wallace.”