She did not belong in Rumley. That was the long and the short of it. The greatest compliment ever paid to the holy state of matrimony was her ability to stick it out for six long years. In her own peculiar way she loved and respected her husband. But the bonds of love were not strong enough to hold her. She was gay and blithe and impious; she loved life even more than she loved love. The shackles hurt. So she slipped out of them one day and left their symbols lying by the wayside in the shape of a broken, bewildered man and a child of her own flesh, while she went back to the world that was calling her to its arms. Herbert Sage was stunned, bewildered.... She wrote him from Chicago at the end of the first week of what was to have been a fortnight’s visit to her mother. It was a long, fond letter in which she said she was not coming back—at least, not for the present. She was leaving at once for New York, where she had been promised a trial by one of the greatest of American producers. A month later came a telegram from her saying she was rehearsing a part in a new piece that was sure to be the “hit of the season”—everybody said so, even the stage director who had the name of being the biggest “gloom” in New York. It was a musical comedy, with a popular comedian as the star, and she had a small part that was going to be a big one before she got through with it—or so she said in her joyous conceit. “With my good looks, my voice, my figure and my ambition, Herby, I cannot fail to get over. Everybody says I’ve got talent, and that dance I used to do for you on week days when it wasn’t necessary to be sanctimonious—well, they are all crazy about it. Before you know it, my dear, you’ll be the husband of one of the most celebrated young women in the United States and I’ll be cashing checks every week that will make your whole year’s salary in that burg look like the change out of a silver half dollar after you’ve bought two ten cent sodas at Fry’s drug store. You will be proud of me, Herby, because I will take mighty good care that you never have any reason to be ashamed of me or for me to be ashamed of myself. You know what I mean. I don’t suppose I will say my prayers as often as I did when you were around to remind me of them but I will be a good girl just the same. Also a wise one.” That was four years ago. Her confidence in herself had been justified, and, for all we know, the same may be said of Herbert Sage’s confidence in her. She had the talent, the voice, the beauty, and above all, the magnetism, and so there was no holding her back. She was being “featured” now, and there was talk of making a star of her. Her letters to Herbert were not very frequent but they invariably were tender. Every once in a while the press agent sent him a large batch of “notices,” chiefly eulogistic; and regularly on little Jane’s birthday a good sized check arrived for the youngster’s “nest egg.”