"I should think she might have been," said Bartley,
while he made a note of the appearance of the jars.

"I don't know about your mentioning it in your interview,"
said Lapham dubiously.

"That's going into the interview, Mr. Lapham, if nothing
else does. Got a wife myself, and I know just how you feel."
It was in the dawn of Bartley's prosperity on the Boston
Events, before his troubles with Marcia had seriously begun.

"Is that so?" said Lapham, recognising with a smile
another of the vast majority of married Americans;
a few underrate their wives, but the rest think them
supernal in intelligence and capability. "Well," he added,
"we must see about that. Where'd you say you lived?"

"We don't live; we board. Mrs. Nash, 13 Canary Place."

"Well, we've all got to commence that way,"
suggested Lapham consolingly.

"Yes; but we've about got to the end of our string.
I expect to be under a roof of my own on Clover Street
before long. I suppose," said Bartley, returning to business,
"that you didn't let the grass grow under your feet much
after you found out what was in your paint-mine?"

"No, sir," answered Lapham, withdrawing his eyes from a long