For Julie, certain envious reactions had followed this event like a poison oak rash after an active day in the woods. The persistent weed of ambition that had been languishing in her innermost heart all these years suddenly flourished and blossomed forth like a tangle of deadly nightshade. From that moment on, though Marc was blissfully unaware of it at the time, the future of the Pillsworth marriage and bankroll was in deadly peril. Even Marc's better judgment was in jeopardy, for when it came to psychological warfare, Julie was just the girl to teach the War Department a trick or two that would probably curl its hair. It was no time at all before Marc was financing a fabulously expensive musical comedy, entitled "Love's Gone Winging," and wondering what had ever possessed him. And all this on top of several outstandingly bad investments. The future was dusky indeed, if it still existed at all. Marc stared unhappily at Memphis. "Pretty bad, huh?" he asked. "If I told you what I think of your wife's talents, Mr. Pillsworth," Memphis said regretfully, "you'd either have to fight me or fire me. Maybe both. Mrs. Pillsworth may be a star tonight, but I bet she does a faster nose-dive than Halley's Comet. I hope she's getting a good rest today. She's going to need her strength." Marc shook his head. "Got any idea what the total costs are so far?" Memphis gazed unhappily out the window. "I'd rather not say," she murmured. "You'd think I was lying. I would, too. There just isn't that much money." Her gaze moved self-consciously from the window to the carpet. "The bank wants to see you right away," she added. "They were gentle but, oh, so firm." Marc flinched. "I guess I'll have to see them," he said. "While I'm gone be a good secretary and make me a reservation in the nearest bread line." "Don't give up the ship," Memphis said. "We can at least go down fighting. Even if it's only the creditors. In the meantime, business as usual. What do you want me to do about the Carmichael Aspirin Account?" "I don't know," Marc said wearily. "See if they give free samples." Memphis crossed to the door. "Well," she said with forced jauntiness, "I'll think of something. Maybe I'll just roll it up and fry it in deep fat." She slapped her girdle. "And I'm just the kid that could do it." When she had gone, Marc turned forlornly to the window. He wasn't actually thinking of jumping, he was just wondering how long it would be before he did start thinking of it. Then he started as invisible hands began to pat industriously at the back of his coat. "Stop that!" he yelled. "I was only brushing you off," George's voice said, near at hand. "You got a little messed up on the floor." "I'll dust myself," Marc said. "Thank you, just the same." "I sure wish I could think of a way to straighten things out for you." "Just forget it," Marc said. "Don't trouble your invisible little head about it."