"Do you mind my speaking about something?"
"What is it, Becky?" Chadwick Booth asked her, gently patronizing, as he surveyed her approvingly, leaning back in his chair, with his two hands shoved comfortably into his trousers' pockets.
"Well," she went on, glancing down at the silver by her plate, "I didn't know until to-day that you were married," she brought out.
Chadwick Booth didn't change his easy attitude—just smiled.
"Didn't you, Becky? That's flattering."
"Flattering?" she murmured, glancing up and then down again.
"Yes. For two reasons. First, because it proves that domesticity isn't stamped all over me, and second because it's rather nice to be found desirable for my own modest attributes. You see, usually, Becky, I'm desirable because I'm the husband of my more desirable wife."
She winced at his easy use of these terms to her, but she got little meaning from his words.
"I didn't know you had a I didn't know," she broke off, "until to-day, but what you were just—just" She stopped.
There was something about her voice that made Chadwick Booth remove his hands from his pockets, and sit up.
"Why, my dear Becky," he exclaimed, "I thought of course you knew," which to do him full credit was true, at least until lately.
It didn't seem reasonable to him that she could live in Boston, and not be aware of the existence of his wife. He could no more have married the prominent
