She had fancied that the mere excitement of the new life filled all brides with a sort of proud complacency; that they felt superior to other human beings, and secretly scorned the unwed.  It was astonishing to find herself still concerned with the tiny questions of yesterday:  the ruffle torn on the bureau, the little infection that swelled and inflamed her chin, the quarter of a dollar her Chinese laundryman swore he had never received.  It was always tremendously thrilling to have Wallace give her money:  delightful gold pieces such as even her mother seldom handled.  She felt a naive resentment that so many of them had to be spent for what she called “uninteresting” things:  lodging and food and car fares.  They seemed so more than sufficient, when she first touched them; they melted so mysteriously away.  She felt that there should be great saving on so generous an allowance, but Wallace never saved, nor did any of his friends and associates.

So that a sense of being baffled began to puzzle her.  She was married now; the great question of life had been answered in the affirmative.  But—­but the future was vague and unsettled still.  Even married persons had their problems.  Even the best of husbands sometimes left a tiny something to be desired.

Husbands, in Martie’s dreams, were ideal persons who laughed indulgently at adored wives, produced money without question or stint, and for twenty or fifty years, as the span of their lives might decree, came home appreciatively to delicious dinners, escorted their wives proudly to dinner or theatre, made presents, paid compliments, and disposed of bills.  That her mother had once perhaps had some such idea of her father did not occur to her.

“Lissen, dear, did I wake you up?” said Mrs. Wallace Bannister, coming quietly into the sitting room that connected her bedroom with that of Mrs. Jesse Cluett, in the early hours of an August morning.

“No—­o!  This feller wakes me up,” Mrs. Cluett said, yawning and pale, but cheerful.  She indicated the fat, serious baby in her arms.  “Honest, it’s enough to kill a girl, playing every night and Sunday, and trying to raise children!” she added, manipulating her flat breast with ringed fingers to meet the little mouth.

“I wish I could either have the baby nights, or play your parts!” laughed Martie, reaching lazily for manicure scissors and beginning to clip her nails, as she sat in a loose, blue kimono opposite the older woman.

“Dearie, you’ll have your own soon enough!” Mabel answered gratefully.  “It won’t be so hard long.  They get so’s they can take care of themselves very quick.  Look at Dette—­goodness knows where she’s been ever since she got up.  She must of drunk her milk and eaten her san’wich, because here’s the empty glass.  She’s playing somewhere; she’s all right.”

“Oh, sure—­she’s all right!” Martie said, smiling lazily.  And as Leroy finished his meal she put out her arms.  “Come to Aunt Martie, Baby.  Oh, you—­cunnin’—­little—­scrap, you!”