"Why not a bow-wow from the night-lunch cart I noticed in the alley? I like the feeling of the mustard running between my fingers," derisively. "Oh, Jap, we oughtn't to--we really ought not!" But he might have been deaf, for all the attention he paid to her earnest protests as he turned into one of the brilliantly lighted restaurants which he had previously patronized and that he liked particularly. There was a glitter in his eyes which increased her uneasiness, and a recklessness in his manner that was not reassuring. "I may go to my grave without ever seeing another lobster," he said as he ordered shellfish. "What will you have to drink?" while the waiter hovered. "Nothing to-night," she replied, startled. "Different here, Old Dear, I'm thirsty. The wine list, waiter." That was the beginning. From the time the champagne and oysters arrived until long past midnight Mrs. Toomey experienced all the sensations that come to the woman who must sit passive and watch her husband pass through the several stages of intoxication. And in addition, she had the knowledge that he could less afford the money he was spending than the waiter who served him. In high spirits at first, with his natural drollness, stimulated to brilliancy, his sallies brought smiles from those at adjoining tables. Then he became in turn boastful, arrogant, argumentative, thick of speech, finally, and slow of comprehension, but obstinate always. "Goin' back jail 'morra, Ol' Dear--goin' finish out my life sentence," when she reminded him of the lateness of the hour and her weariness, and he resented her interference so fiercely when she countermanded an order that she dared not repeat it. "You lis'en me, waiter, thish my party. Might think I was town drunkard--village sot way my wife tryin' flag me." Mrs. Toomey colored painfully at the attention he attracted. He turned to a late comer who had seated himself at a small table across the narrow aisle from them. "My wife's a great disappointment to me--no sport--never was, never will be. 'Morra," addressing himself to the stranger exclusively, "goin' back to hear the prairie dogs chatter--goin' listen to the sagebrush tick--back one thousan' miles from an oyster--" "Jap!" Mrs. Toomey interrupted desperately, "we must be going. Everyone's leaving." "We'll be closing shortly," the waiter hinted. Toomey blinked at the check he placed before him. "Can't see whether tha's twenty dollars, or two hundred dollars or two thousand dollars." The waiter murmured the amount, but not so softly but that Mrs. Toomey paled when she heard it. He had not enough to pay it, she was sure of it, for while he had brought from the room an amount that would have been ample for any ordinary theater supper, wine had not been in his calculations. Mrs. Toomey looked on anxiously while he produced the contents of his pocket. "Sorry, sir, but it isn't enough," said the waiter, after counting the notes he tossed upon the plate.