K. had never known a married couple to take two rooms and go to the bride's

mother's for meals in order to keep a car. He looked faintly dazed. Also,

certain sophistries of his former world about a cheap chauffeur being

costly in the end rose in his mind and were carefully suppressed.

"You'll find a car a great comfort, I'm sure," he said politely.

Christine considered K. rather distinguished. She liked his graying hair

and steady eyes, and insisted on considering his shabbiness a pose. She was

conscious that she made a pretty picture in the French window, and preened

herself like a bright bird.

"You'll come out with us now and then, I hope."


"Thank you."

"Isn't it odd to think that we are going to be practically one family!"

"Odd, but very pleasant."

He caught the flash of Christine's smile, and smiled back. Christine was

glad she had decided to take the rooms, glad that K. lived there. This

thing of marriage being the end of all things was absurd. A married woman

should have men friends; they kept her up. She would take him to the

Country Club. The women would be mad to know him. How clean-cut his

profile was!

Across the Street, the Rosenfeld boy had stopped by Dr. Wilson's car, and

was eyeing it with the cool, appraising glance of the street boy whose sole

knowledge of machinery has been acquired from the clothes-washer at home.

Joe Drummond, eyes carefully ahead, went up the Street. Tillie, at Mrs.

McKee's, stood in the doorway and fanned herself with her apron. Max

Wilson came out of the house and got into his car. For a minute, perhaps,

all the actors, save Carlotta and Dr. Ed, were on the stage. It was that

bete noir of the playwright, an ensemble; K. Le Moyne and Sidney, Palmer

Howe, Christine, Tillie, the younger Wilson, Joe, even young Rosenfeld, all

within speaking distance, almost touching distance, gathered within and

about the little house on a side street which K. at first grimly and now

tenderly called "home."

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