Marcia was disturbed over this candid letter, since she had just sent a long letter of her own of a far more romantic nature, describing her beautiful new wardrobe (seen in the Smith Store catalogue), and telling of gay parties in the fashionable homes of Jerry (Lena’s chum) and Burnadetta (my chum), Papa’s eminence at the Athletic Club (“he is president of it”) and her own and her sisters’ triumphs in the Epworth League, Dancing School, and Gym Club. She dared not admit her guilt to Lena, and trusted to the usual delay in Lena’s acquiring a stamp.

It was true that life in Lesterville seemed a series of misfortunes. Marcia’s teacher suggested calling at her home to talk over grades, and inquired who looked after their homework. Marcia said, “Our housekeeper.” When the teacher did call she reported to the Community Charity Service that the children were neglected and, to their mortification, a box of groceries was delivered in the Charity Service truck.

At sight of this, Mrs. Jane assumed that Papa had lost his job and harried him every night for back rent and advance as well. The cashier of the Bakery Lunch, who roomed on the third floor, lost a cameo ring and said one of those fresh little girls had stolen it. Lena talked back to her and was slapped in the face. Later Florrie found the ring in the hall, but Lena wouldn’t let her give it back because the woman would be all the more certain of theft. At school Marcia got first prize in Composition but was ignominiously retired to third prize because the principal, who was judge, said the theme showed she had had outside help. And Florrie had broken Mrs. Jane’s glass snowstorm ball because the shepherdess looked like Mama and she wanted to save her.

It was no good telling Papa these woes, because they made him so mad he banged out of the house and stayed out all night playing poker with Mr. Taylor. He was gloomy whenever he was home, and always gloomier after a visit from his old friend Hartwell, now back on probation with Mabel. Mr. Hartwell said Papa was too big a man to be stuck in a cheap outfit like the High Class Novelty Company. A first-class salesman was going to waste, he declared, and it was a damn shame. He brought messages from the waitress at the Toledo lunch room, from Kitty over in Detroit, from the Clark crowd in Akron, and he described gay parties in fashionable roof gardens (“don’t mention this to Mabel”) where Papa’s fund of anecdotes would have been highly prized.

“No, sir, I’m through with that,” Papa declared a little more emphatically than was necessary. “I’ve got a good thing, here, a raise promised. Had a hint from Troyan the other day I might be asked into the firm. I’ve had plenty of offers to go back on the road but not me. Got a letter just today from my old firm wanting me back. No siree.”