“You’d ought to have one, Mart,” said Mabel affectionately.

The wife of a month flushed brightly.  With her loosened bronze braid hanging over her shoulder, her blue eyes soft with happiness, and her full figure only slightly disguised by the thin nightgown and wrapper she wore, she looked the incarnation of potent youth and beauty.

“I’d love it,” she said, burying her hot cheeks in the little space between Leroy’s fluffy crown and the collar of his soggy little double gown.

“I love ’em, too,” Mabel agreed.  “But they cert’ny do tie you down.  Dette was the same way—­only I sort of forgot it.”

“If this salary was going to keep up, I’d like a dozen of ’em!” Martie smiled.

“Well, Wallace ought to do well,” Mabel conceded.  “But of course, you can’t be sure.  My idea is to plunge in and have them, regardless.  Things’ll fit if they’ve got to.”

“That’s the nicest way,” Martie said timidly.  She had married, knowing nothing of wifehood and motherhood, except the one fact that the matter of children must be left entirely to chance.  But she did not like to tell Mabel so.

She sat on in the pleasant morning sunshine, utterly happy, utterly at ease.  The baby went to sleep as the two women murmured together.  Outside the lace-curtained windows busy Geary Street had long been astir.  Wagons rattled up and down; cable-cars clanged.  Sunlight had already conquered the summer fog.  It was nine o’clock.

Mabel was enjoying tea and toast, but Martie refused to join her.  If every hour had not been so blissful the young wife would have said that the happiest time of the day was when she and Wallace wandered out into the sunshine together for breakfast.

Presently she slipped away to take the bath that was a part of her morning routine now, and to wake Wallace.  With his tumbled hair, his flushed face and his pale blue pajama jacket open at the throat Martie thought him no more than a delightful, drowsy boy.  She sat on the edge of the bed beside him, teasing him to open his eyes.

“Ah—­you darling!” Wallace was not too sleepy to appreciate her cool, fresh kisses.  “Oh, Lord, I’m a wreck!  What time is it?”

“Nearly ten.  You’ve had ten hours’ sleep, darling.  I don’t know what you want!” Martie answered—­at the bureau now, with the glory of her hair falling about her.

While they dressed they talked; delicious irrelevant chatter punctuated with laughter and kisses.  The new stock company was a success, and Wallace working hard and happily.  At ten the young Bannisters went forth in search of breakfast, the best meal of the day.

Martie loved the city:  Market Street, Kearney Street, Union Square.  She loved the fresh breath of the morning in her face.  She always had her choice of flowers at the curb market about Lotta’s fountain, pinning a nodding bunch of roses, Shasta daisies, pansies, or cafnations at the belt of her white shirtwaists.  They went to the Vienna Bakery or to Swain’s for their leisurely meal, unless Wallace was hungry enough to beg for the Poodle Dog, or they felt rich enough for the Palace.  Now and then they walked out of the familiar neighbourhood and tried a strange restaurant or hotel—­but not often.