Even in a yellowed newspaper
that had covered the top shelf in her closet
she found one day a symposium on whether or
not an artist's wife should be an artist; and she
shuddered--but she read every opinion given.
Some writers said no, and some, yes; and some
said it all depended--on the artist and his wife.
Billy found much food for thought, some for
amusement, and a little that made for peace of
mind. On the whole it opened up a new phase
of the matter, perhaps. At all events, upon
finishing it she almost sobbed:
``One would think that just because I write a
song now and then, I was going to let Bertram
starve, and go with holes in his socks and no
buttons on his clothes!''
It was that afternoon that Billy went to see
Marie; but even there she did not escape, for
the gentle Marie all unknowingly added her mite
to the woeful whole.
Billy found Marie in tears.
``Why, Marie!'' she cried in dismay.
``Sh-h!'' warned Marie, turning agonized eyes
toward the closed door of Cyril's den.
``But, dear, what is it?'' begged Billy, with no
less dismay, but with greater caution.
``Sh-h!'' admonished Marie again.
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