Martie almost missed the five o’clock trolley, but Wallace pushed her upon the moving platform at the last possible moment, and she laughed and gasped blindly half the way home, accepting his help with her disordered hair and hat.  When she finally raised her face, and somewhat shamefacedly eyed the one or two other occupants of the car, she saw Rose sitting opposite, a neat and interested Rose in her trousseau tailor-made.

Uncomfortable, Martie bowed, and Rose responded sweetly, presently patting the seat beside her with an inviting glove.  Somewhat surprised at this unexpected graciousness, Martie and her escort crossed the car.

“No, Mrs.—­not Miss!” Rose contradicted Wallace merrily, looking up at him prettily.  “I know I’m not very imposing, but I’m a really truly old married lady!”

“This is Mrs. Rodney Parker, Wallace,” Martie said.  Instantly she was pleasantly conscious that her easy use of this actor’s name was a surprise to Rose, and for the first time a definite pride in possession seized her.  He might not be perfection, but he was hers.

“Is that so!” Wallace exclaimed, with new interest in eyes and voice.  “Gosh—­what fun we had that night!  Do you remember the night we had oysters, and sat in that little place gassing for two hours?  You know,” said he, in a confidential aside to Rose, “Martie’s a wonder when she gets started!”

“Isn’t she?” Rose responded politely.  “That was before I met my husband, I think,” she added, “or rather re-met him, for years ago Mr. Parker and I—–­”

But Wallace, amused by the discussion that had arisen between the conductor and a Chinese who was getting on the car, interrupted abruptly to call Martie’s attention to the affair, and Rose’s reminiscence was lost.  She said, with her good-byes, that Mr. Bannister must come and dine with them.

“Gosh, I see myself!” ejaculated Wallace ungratefully, as he walked with Martie to the gate.  “I never could stand that ass Parker!”

“Don’t you think she’s very pretty, Wallace?”

“Oh, I don’t know!  I don’t care much for those dolly women.  I like red hair and big women, myself.  Listen, Martie.  To-morrow—–­”

No more was said of Rose.  Martie wondered why she liked to hear Rodney Parker called an ass.

Malcolm Monroe came home for luncheon every day except Wednesday, which made Wednesday for the women of the family the easy day of the week.  Their midday meal, never elaborate or formal, was less formal and even simpler on this day; conversation was more free, and time less considered.

For several days after Sally’s extraordinary marriage Mrs. Monroe had wept continually, and even her always mild and infrequent attempts at conversation had been silenced.  Later, she and Lydia had long and mournful discussions of the event, punctuating them with heavy sighs and uncomprehending shaking of their heads.  That a Monroe in her senses could stoop to a Hawkes was a fact that would never cease to puzzle and amaze, and what the town was saying and thinking in the matter was an agonized speculation to Mrs. Monroe and Lydia.  “Socially, of course,” said Lydia, “we will never hold up our heads again!”