She went to the dressing room with Mabel, who was sick. Presently they were all out in a drizzling rain, stumbling their way up the hill and blundering aboard a street car. Two nice, quiet women on the opposite seat watched the group in shocked disgust; Martie felt that she would never hold up her head again. Wallace fell when they got off, and his hat rolled in the mud. Martie tried to help him, somehow got him upstairs to his room, somehow got him into bed, where he at once fell asleep, and snored. It was just eleven o'clock. Martie washed her face, and brushed her hair, and sat down, in a warm wrapper, staring gloomily at the unconscious form on the bed. She could hear Mabel and Jesse laughing and quarrelling in the room adjoining. Presently Mabel came in for the baby, who usually slept in Martie's room during the earlier part of the night, so that his possible crying would not disturb Bernadette. "Poor Wallace--he is all in, down and out!" Mabel said, settling herself to nurse the baby. She looked flushed and excited still, but was otherwise herself. "He certainly was lit up like a battleship," she added in an amused voice; "as for me, I'm ashamed of myself--I'm always that way!" Martie's indignant conviction was that Mabel might indeed be ashamed of herself, and this airy expression of what should have been penitence too deep for words, gave her a curious shock. "They all do it," said Mabel, smiling after a long yawn, "and I suppose it's better to have their wives with 'em, than to have 'em go off by themselves!" "They all SHOULDN'T do it!" Martie answered sombrely. "Well, no; I suppose they shouldn't!" Mabel conceded amiably. She carried the baby away, and Martie sat on, gazing sternly at the unconscious Wallace. Half an hour passed, another half hour. Martie had intended to do some serious thinking, but she found herself sleepy. After a while she crept in beside her husband, and went to sleep, her heart still hot with anger. But when the morning came she forgave him, as she was often to forgive him. What else could she do? The sunlight was streaming into their large, shabby bedroom, cable cars were rattling by, fog whistles from the bay penetrated the soft winter air. Martie was healthily hungry for breakfast, Wallace awakened good natured and penitent. "You were a darling to me last night, Mart," he said appreciatively. Martie had not known he was awake. She turned from her mirror, regarding him steadily between the curtains of her shining hair. "And you're a darling not to rub it in," Wallace pursued. "I WOULD rub it in," Martie said in a hurt voice, "if I thought it would do any good!" Wallace sat up, and pressed his hands against his forehead. "Well, believe me--that was the last!" he said fervently. "Never again!" "Oh, dearest," Martie said, coming to sit beside him, "I hope you mean that!" That he did mean it, they both believed.