Revelations of a Wife | Page 5

in
elaborate evening dress, others in street garb. Some were going in to
their seats, others were gossiping with each other, still others appeared
to be waiting for friends.
The most conspicuous of all the women leaned against the wall and
gazed at others through a lorgnette which she handled as if she had not
long before been accustomed to its use. Her gown, a glaringly cut one,
was of scarlet chiffon over silk, and her brocaded cape was
half-slipping from her shoulder. Her hair was frankly dyed, and she
rouged outrageously.
I gazed at her fascinated. She typified to me everything that was
disagreeable. I have always disliked even being in the neighborhood of
her vulgar kind. What was my horror, then, to see her deliberately
smiling at me, then coming toward us with hand outstretched.
I realized the truth even before she spoke. It was not I at whom she was
smiling, but Dicky. She was Dicky's friend!
"Why, bless my soul, if it isn't the Dicky-bird," she cried so loudly that
everybody turned to look at us. She took my hand. "I suppose you are
the bride Dicky's been hiding away so jealously." She looked me up
and down as if I were on exhibition and turning to Dicky said. "Pretty
good taste, Dicky, but I don't imagine that your old friends will see
much of you from now on."
"That's where you're wrong, Lil," returned Dicky easily. "We're going

to have you all up some night soon."
"See that you do," she returned, tweaking his ear as we passed on to our
seats.
I had not spoken during the conversation. I had shaken the hand of the
woman and smiled at her.
But over and over again in my brain this question was revolving:
"Who is this unpleasant woman who calls my husband 'Dicky-bird,' and
who is called 'Lil' by him?"
But I love the very air of the theatre, so as Dicky and I sank into the
old-fashioned brocaded seats I resolutely put away from my mind all
disturbing thoughts of the woman in the lobby who appeared on such
good terms with my husband, and prepared to enjoy every moment of
the evening.
"Well done, Madge," Dicky whispered mischievously, as, after we had
been seated, I let my cloak drop from my shoulders without arising.
"You wriggled that off in the most approved manner."
"I ought to," I whispered back. "I've watched other women with
envious attention during all the lean years, when I wore tailor-mades to
mill and to meeting."
Dicky squeezed my hand under cover of the cloak. "No more lean years
for my girl if I can help it." he murmured earnestly.
Dicky appeared to know a number of people in the audience. A
half-dozen men and two or three women bowed to him. He told me
about each one. Two were dramatic critics, others artist and actor
friends. Each one's name was familiar to me through the newspapers.
"You'll know them all later, Madge," he said, and I felt a glow of
pleasure in the anticipation of meeting such interesting people.
Dicky opened his program, and I idly watched the people between me

and the stage. A few seats in front of us to the left I caught sight of the
woman who had claimed Dicky's acquaintance in the lobby. She was
signaling greetings to a number of acquaintances in a flamboyant
fashion. She would bow elaborately, then lift her hands together as if
shaking hands with the person she greeted.
"Who is she, Dicky?" I tried to make my voice careless. "I did not catch
her name when you introduced us."
"You'll probably see enough of her so you won't forget it," returned
Dicky, grinning. "She's one of the busiest little members of the
'Welcome to Our City Committee' in the set I train most with. She
won't rest till you've met all the boys and girls and been properly
lionized. She's one of the best little scouts going, and, if she'd cut out
the war paint and modulate that Comanche yell she calls her voice there
would be few women to equal her for brains or looks."
"But you haven't told me yet what her name is," I persisted.
"Well, in private life she's Mrs. Harry Underwood--that's Harry with
her--but she's better known all over the country as the cleverest
producer of illustrated jingles for advertising we have. Remember that
Simple Simon parody for the mincemeat advertisement we laughed
over some time ago, and I told you I knew the woman who did it?
There she is before you," and Dicky waved his hand grandiloquently.
"Lillian Gale!" I almost gasped the name.
"The same," rejoined Dicky, and turned again to his program, while I
sat in amazed horror, with all