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Updated: June 22, 2025
Presently Mabel began to laugh unrestrainedly, much to Martie's half-comprehending embarrassment. The men, far from seeming to be shocked by her hysteria, laughed violently themselves. "Time f'r 'nother round cocktails!" Jesse said. Martie turned to her husband. "Wallace! Don't order any more. Not until we've had some solid food, anyway. Can't you see that we don't need them?" "What is it, dear?"
Between the acts the delicious exchange of confidences between herself and Rodney went on; they nibbled Bonestell's chocolates from a striped paper bag as they talked, and when the final curtain fell on a ringing line there were real tears of pleasure in Martie's eyes. "Oh, Rodney this is LIVING!" she whispered, as they filed slowly out. Sally and Lydia had considerately disappeared. Mrs.
Martie had left home she was never going back she had only twenty dollars and an old coat and hat she was going to stay with Mabel for the present "What's this sweet dream about staying with Mabel?" Wallace said, bewildered, reproachful, definite. He came over to Martie and put one arm about her. "Look here, folks," he said, almost indignantly, "Martie's my girl, aren't you, Martie?
Grayer and thinner, the librarian was otherwise unchanged. The old strong, coarse voice, the old plain dress, serviceable and comfortable, the old delighted affection. Miss Fanny wore glasses now; she beamed upon Teddy as she put them on, after frankly wiping her eyes. She made a little fuss about Martie's joining the Library, so that Teddy could take home "Davy and the Goblin."
Of Martie's hidden agony she suspected nothing. She took Martie to the tiny house by the river; the plates and spoons and pillow-slips looked strange to Martie, and for every one of them Sally had an amused history.
Clifford Frost was waiting for them at the door, and Martie, with quick tact, fell into conversation with the kindly matron, walking at her side down the crowded street, and leaving Rodney to follow with the others. Little Ruth Frost had had some trouble fearfully resembling diphtheria, and Martie's first interested question was enough to enlist the mother's attention.
And how cruel he was, playing upon poor Ma's and Lydia's feelings just for his own satisfaction. "You understand me, don't you, Martie?" he asked grimly. "I suppose so." An ugly smile curved Martie's lips. Her lids were half lowered. "Well remember it. And never any one of you mention your sister's name to me again!" "No, Pa," said four fervent voices. Then they had dinner.
The Monroe girls gave Rose a "linen shower" in return, and the whole town shared the pleasure of the happy pair. Martie had enough to think of now. Not even the thoughts of the prospective bride could dwell more persistently on her own affairs than did Martie's thoughts.
"She fairly lives at the Library, and she takes long walks, I imagine, Ma," Lydia said once. "You know Martie misses she's lonely. And then there was, of course, the feeling about Rodney. It's just Martie's queer way of righting herself." But on the hot Wednesday morning that brought in July Martie, with a clear conscience, was baking gingerbread.
Husbands, in Martie's dreams, were ideal persons who laughed indulgently at adored wives, produced money without question or stint, and for twenty or fifty years, as the span of their lives might decree, came home appreciatively to delicious dinners, escorted their wives proudly to dinner or theatre, made presents, paid compliments, and disposed of bills.
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