Presumably the real actors, the real writers and painters led a mad and merry life somewhere, wore priceless gowns and opened champagne; but it was not here.  These were the imitators, the pretenders, and the rich idlers who had nothing better to do than believe in the pretenders.

Still, when Wallace suggested it, Martie found it wise to yield.  He might stumble home beside her at eleven, the worse for the eating and drinking, but at least he did come home, and she could tell herself that the men in the car who had smiled at his condition were only brutes; she would never see them again; what did their opinion matter!  In other ways she yielded to him; peace, peace and affection at any cost.  Yet it cost her dear, for the possibility of another child’s coming was the one thought that frightened and dismayed her.

Strongly contrasted to Wallace’s open-handedness when he was with his friends was the strict economy Martie was obliged to practise in her housekeeping.  She went to market herself, as the spring came on, heaping her little purchases at Margar’s feet in the coach.  Teddy danced and chattered beside her, neighbours stopped to smile at the baby.  At the fruit carts, the meat market, the grocery, Martie pondered and planned.  Oranges had gone up, lamb had gone up—­dear, dear, dear!

Sitting at the grocery counter, she would rearrange her menus.

“Butter fifty—­my, that is high!  Hasn’t the new butter come in?  I had better have half a pound, I think.  And the beans, and the onions, yes.  Let me see—­how do you sell the canned asparagus—­ that’s too much.  Send me those things, Mr. O’Brien, and I’ll see what I can get in the market.”

All about her, in the heart-warming spring sunshine, other women were mildly lamenting, mildly bartering.  Martie’s brain was still busily milling, as she wheeled the coach back through the checkered sun and shade of the elevated train.  She would bump the coach down into the area, carefully loading her arms with small packages, catching Margar to her shoulder.

Panting, the perspiration breaking out on her forehead, she would enter the dining room.

“Take her, Isabeau!  My arms are breaking!  Whew!—­it is hot!  Not now, Teddy, you can’t have anything until lunch time.  Amuse her a minute, Isabeau, I can’t take her until—­I get—­my breath!  I had to change dinner; he had no liver.  I got veal for veal loaf; Mr. Bannister likes that; and stuffed onions, and the pie, and baked potatoes.  Make tea.  Put that down, Teddy, you can’t have that.  Now, my blessedest girl, come to your mother!  She’s half asleep now; I’ll change her and put her out for her nap!”

The baby fed and asleep, Ted out again, Martie would serve Wallace’s breakfast herself rather than interrupt the steady thumping of irons in the kitchen.  She tried to be patient with his long delays.

“How’s the head?” she would ask, sitting opposite him with little socks to match, or boxed strawberries to stem.