“Well, did anything happen?” “N-no; but then I telephoned, you see, several times, so I _knew_ everything was all right.” “Oh, well, if that's all you want, I could telephone, you know, between every act,” suggested Bertram, with a sarcasm that was quite lost on the earnest young mother. “Y-yes, you could do that, couldn't you?” conceded Billy; “and, of course, I _haven't_ been anywhere much, lately.” “Indeed I could,” agreed Bertram, with a promptness that carefully hid his surprise at her literal acceptance of what he had proposed as a huge joke. “Come, is it a go? Shall I telephone to see if I can get seats?” “You think Baby'll surely be all right?” “I certainly do.” “And you'll telephone home between every act?” “I will.” Bertram's voice sounded almost as if he were repeating the marriage service. “And we'll come straight home afterwards as fast as John and Peggy can bring us?” “Certainly.” “Then I think--I'll--go,” breathed Billy, tremulously, plainly showing what a momentous concession she thought she was making. “I do love 'Romeo and Juliet,' and I haven't seen it for ages!” “Good! Then I'll find out about the tickets,” cried Bertram, so elated at the prospect of having an old-time evening out with his wife that even the half-hourly telephones did not seem too great a price to pay. When the time came, they were a little late in starting. Baby was fretful, and though Billy usually laid him in his crib and unhesitatingly left the room, insisting that he should go to sleep by himself in accordance with the most approved rules in her Scientific Training; yet to-night she could not bring herself to the point of leaving the house until he was quiet. Hurried as they were when they did start, Billy was conscious of Bertram's frowning disapproval of her frock. “You don't like it, of course, dear, and I don't blame you,” she smiled remorsefully. “Oh, I like it--that is, I did, when it was new,” rejoined her husband, with apologetic frankness. “But, dear, didn't you have anything else? This looks almost--well, mussy, you know.” “No--well, yes, maybe there were others,” admitted Billy; “but this was the quickest and easiest to get into, and it all came just as I was getting Baby ready for bed, you know. I am a fright, though, I'll acknowledge, so far as clothes go. I haven't had time to get a thing since Baby came. I must get something right away, I suppose.” “Yes, indeed,” declared Bertram, with emphasis, hurrying his wife into the waiting automobile. Billy had to apologize again at the theater, for the curtain had already risen on the ancient quarrel between the houses of Capulet and Montague, and Billy knew her husband's special abhorrence of tardy arrivals. Later, though, when well established in their seats, Billy's mind was plainly not with the players on the stage. “Do you suppose Baby _is_ all right?” she whispered, after a time. “Sh-h! Of course he is, dear!”