ever before asked Terry to be his wife. They had made love to
her. They had paid court to her. They had sent her large boxes
of stale drugstore chocolates, and called her endearing names as
they made cautious declarations such as:

"I've known a lot of girls, but you've got something different.
I don't know. You've got so much sense. A fellow can chum
around with you. Little pal."

Wetona would be their home. They rented a comfortable,
seven-room house in a comfortable, middle-class neighborhood, and
Terry dropped the red velvet turbans and went in for picture
hats. Orville bought her a piano whose tone was so good that to
her ear, accustomed to the metallic discords of the Bijou
instrument, it sounded out of tune. She played a great deal at
first, but unconsciously she missed the sharp spat of applause
that used to follow her public performance. She would play a
piece, brilliantly, and then her hands would drop to her lap.
And the silence of her own sitting room would fall flat on her
ears. It was better on the evenings when Orville was home. He
sang, in his throaty, fat man's tenor, to Terry's expert
accompaniment.

"This is better than playing for those ham actors, isn't it,
hon?" And he would pinch her ear.

"Sure"--listlessly.

But after the first year she became accustomed to what she termed
private life. She joined an afternoon sewing club, and was