"Fine!" she assured him, laying her hand over his.
They remained so for a full minute, Wallace staring gloomily at nothing, Martie's eyes idly roving about the room. Then the man reached for a section of the paper, glanced at it indifferently, and flung it aside.
"There wasn't any rehearsal this morning," he observed after a pause. He cleared his throat self-consciously before speaking and Martie, glancing quickly at him, saw that he intended the statement to have a significance.
"Where were you then?" she asked duly.
"I was—I was—" He hesitated, expelling a long breath suddenly. "Something came up," he amended, "and I had to see about it."
"What came up?" Martie pursued, more anxious to set his mind at rest, than curious.
"Well—it all goes back to some time ago, Mart; before I knew you," Wallace said, in a carefully matter-of-fact tone. But she could see that he was troubled, and a faint stir of apprehension shook her own heart.
"Money?" she guessed quickly.
"No," he said reassuringly, "nothing like that!"
He got up, and restlessly circled the room, drawing the shade that was rattling gently at the window, flinging his coat across a chair.