of greasy pots and pans. Restoring order to a badly cluttered room is
another glamour destroyer, but the first prize, I stoutly affirm, goes
to the dishes.

An especially aggravating collection of romance shatterers awaited
me the morning after our visit to the theatre, and my first encounter
with Lillian Gale.

Dicky took a hurried breakfast and rushed off to the studio, while I
spent a dreary forenoon washing the dishes and putting the apartment
to rights. I dreaded the discussion with Dicky at luncheon. I
had insisted before my marriage that I must either do most of the
housework, or keep up some of my old work to add to our income. To
have a maid, while I did nothing to justify my existence save keep
myself pretty and entertain Dicky, savored too much to me of the harem
favorite.

A mother of small children, a woman with a large house, one who had
old people to care for, or whose health was not good, was justified in
having help. But for me, well, strong, with a tiny apartment, and just
Dicky, to employ a maid without myself earning at least enough to pay
for the extra expense of having her--it was simply impossible. I had
been independent too long. The situation was galling.

The postman's ring interrupted my thoughts. I went to the door,
receiving a number of advertisements, a letter or two for Dicky, and
one, addressed in an unfamiliar handwriting, to myself. I opened it
and read it wonderingly.