Bewildered, dirty, tired, she stumbled along at his side, her eyes moving rapidly over the strange crowds, the strange buildings, the strange streets and crossings.  That must be an elevated train banging along; here was a park, with men packed on the benches, and newspapers blowing lazily on the paths.  And shops in all the basements—­why had no one ever told her that there were shops in all the basements?  And a placid church facade breaking this array of trimmed windows and crowded little enterprises!  It was hot:  she felt her forehead wet, her clothes seemed heavy and sticky, and her head ached dully.

“Howd’ you like it?” Wallace asked enthusiastically.

“I love it, sweetheart!”

Wallace, frankly embarrassed for money, took her at once to Mrs. Curley’s big boarding-house in East Seventieth Street, where the Cluetts had stayed.

Mabel had told Martie that “Grandma Curley” was a “character.”  She was a plain, shrewd, kindly old woman, who lived in an old brownstone house that had been acquired after his death, Martie learned, for a bad debt of her husband’s making.  She liked everybody and believed in nobody; smiling a deep, mysterious smile when her table or her management was praised.  She eyed Martie’s fresh beauty appraisingly, immediately suspected her condition, was given the young wife’s unreserved confidence, and, with a few brief pieces of advice, left her new boarders entirely to their own devices.  Wallace’s daring compliments fell upon unhearing ears; she would not lower her prices for anybody, she said.  They could have the big room for eighteen, or the little one for fourteen dollars a week.

“Sixteen for the big one!  You know you like our looks,” said Wallace.

“I’d be losing money on it, Mr. Bannister.  You can take it or leave it, just as you like.”

He was a little daunted by her firmness, but in the end he told Martie that eighteen was cheap enough, and as she scattered her belongings about, his wife gave a happy assent.  It was fun to be married and be boarding in New York.

She was too confused, too excited, to eat her dinner.  They were both in wild spirits; and went out after dinner to take an experimental ride on the elevated train.  That evening the trunk came, and Martie, feeling still in a whirl of new impressions, unpacked in the big bare bedroom; as pleased as a child to arrange her belongings in the empty bureau or hang them in the shallow closet.  She had been looking forward, for five hot days, to the pleasure of a bath and a quiet bed.  The bath was not to be had; neither faucet in the bathroom ran hot; but the bed was deliciously comfortable, and Martie tumbled into it with only one thought in her head: 

“Anyway, whatever happens now—­I’m here in New York!”