Bartley stopped abruptly. “Not one ten-thousandth part as good-looking, nor one millionth part as bright, as Marcia Hubbard!” He caught her and smothered her against his breast. “I don't care! I don't care!” she cried. “I was to blame more than you, if you flirted with her, and it serves me right. Yes, I will never say anything to you for anything that happened after I behaved so to you.” “There wasn't anything else happened,” cried Bartley. “And the Montreal woman snubbed me soundly before she was done with me.” “Snubbed you!” exclaimed Marcia, with illogical indignation. This delighted Bartley so much that it was long before he left off laughing over her. Then they sat down, and were silent till she said, “And did you leave him in a temper?” “Who? Kinney? In a perfect devil of a temper. I wouldn't even borrow some money he wanted to lend me.” “Write to him, Bartley,” said his wife, seriously. “I love you so I can't bear to have anybody bad friends with you.” XIII. The whole thing was so crazy, as Bartley said, that it made no difference if they kept up the expense a few days longer. He took a hack from the depot when they arrived in Boston, and drove to the Revere House, instead of going up in the horse-car. He entered his name on the register with a flourish, “Bartley J. Hubbard and Wife, _Boston_,” and asked for a room and fire, with laconic gruffness; but the clerk knew him at once for a country person, and when the call-boy followed him into the parlor where Marcia sat, in the tremor into which she fell whenever Bartley was out of her sight, the call-boy discerned her provinciality at a glance, and made free to say that he guessed they had better let him take their things up to their room, and come up themselves after the porter had got their fire going. “All right,” said Bartley, with hauteur; and he added, for no reason, “Be quick about it.” “Yes, sir,” said the boy. “What time is supper--dinner, I mean?” “It's ready now, sir.” “Good. Take up the things. Come just as you are, Marcia. Let him take your cap,--no, keep it on; a good many of them come down in their bonnets.” Marcia put off her sack and gloves, and hastily repaired the ravages of travel as best she could. She would have liked to go to her room just long enough to brush her hair a little, and the fur cap made her head hot; but she was suddenly afraid of doing something that would seem countrified in Bartley's eyes, and she promptly obeyed: they had come from Portland in a parlor car, and she had been able to make a traveller's toilet before they reached Boston.