“Her husband?” Martie’s voice died in a sort of faintness.

“Sure!  She was married six years before I ever saw her.  Uncle Chess says he heard it, and then forgot it, you know the way you do?  I’ve been to Portland and Uncle Chess was bully.  His old lawyer, whom he consulted at the time I left there, was dead, but we dug up the license bureau and found what we were after.  She had been married all right and her husband’s still living.  We found him in the Home for Incurables up there; been there fifteen years.  I got a copy of her marriage license from the Registrar and if Mrs. Golda White Ferguson ever turns up again we’ll see who does the talking about bigamy!  The she-devil!  And I told you about meeting Dawson?”

“Oh, God, I thank Thee—­I thank Thee!” Martie was breathing to herself, her eyes closed.  “Dawson?” she asked, when he repeated the name.

Wallace had straightened up; it was quite in his old manner that he said: 

“I—­would—­rather work for Emory Dawson than for any man I know of in New York!”

“Oh, a manager?”

“The coming manager—­you mark what I say!”

“And you met him?” Martie was asking the dutiful questions; but her face rested against her husband’s as she talked, and she was crying a little, in joy and relief.

For answer Wallace gently dislodged her, so that he might take from his pocket a letter, the friendly letter that the manager had dashed off.

“He swears he’ll book me!” Wallace said, refolding the letter.  “He said he needs me, and I need him.  I borrowed two hundred from Uncle Chess, and now it’s us to the bright lights, Baby!”

“And nothing but happiness—­happiness—­happiness!” Martie said, returning his handkerchief, and finishing the talk with one of her eager kisses and with a child’s long sigh.

“I was afraid you might be a little sorry about—­November, Wallie,” said she, after a while.  “You are glad, a little; aren’t you?”

“Sure!” he answered good-naturedly.  “You can’t help it!”

Martie looked at him strangely, as if she were puzzled or surprised.  Was it her fault?  Were women to be blamed for bearing?  But she rested her case there, and presently Sally came in, wheeling the baby, and there was a disorderly dinner of sausages and fresh bread and strawberries, with everybody jumping up and sitting down incessantly.  Wallace was a great addition to the little group; they were all young enough to like the pose of lovers, to flush and dimple over the new possessives, over the odd readjustment of relationships.  The four went to see the moving pictures in the evening, and came home strewing peanut-shells on the sidewalk, laughing and talking.

Two little clouds spoiled the long-awaited glory of going to New York for Martie, when early in July she and Wallace really arranged to go.  One was the supper he gave a night or two before they left to various young members of the Hawkes family, Reddy Johnson, and one or two other men.  Martie thought it was “silly” to order wine and to attempt a smart affair in the dismal white dining room of the hotel; she resented the opportunity Wallace gave her old friends to see him when he was not at his best.  She scolded him for incurring the unnecessary expense.