Now that the cat was out of the bag, and the husband out of the closet, Sheila decided to produce Bret at the train the next morning. He was about to get a taste of the gipsying life known as “trouping” and he was to learn the significance of the one-night stand.
He had felt so shamefaced for his part in the deception of Reben that when he visited the play during the evening performance, and saw the much-discussed embrace restored, he had no heart to make a vigorous protest. And Sheila was too weary after the two performances to be hectored. It was heartbreaking to him to see her so exhausted.
“Where do we go from here?” he asked, helplessly.
“Petoskey,” she yawned.
“Petoskey!” he gasped. “That’s in Russia. In Heaven’s name, do we—”
He was ready to believe in almost anything imbecile. But she explained that their Petoskey was in Michigan. He did not approve of Michigan.
His hatred of his wife’s profession began to take deeper root. It flourished exceedingly when they had to get up for the train the next morning at six. It was hard enough for him to begin the new day. Sheila’s struggles to fight off sleep were desperate. Sleep was like an octopus whose many arms took new hold as fast as they were torn loose. Bret was so sorry for her that he begged her to let the company go without her. She could take a later train. But even her sad face was crinkled with a smile at the impossibility of this suggestion.
Breakfast was the sort of meal usually flung together by servants alarm-clocked earlier than their wont. For all their gulping and hurry, Bret and Sheila nearly missed the train. It was moving as they clambered aboard.
“Which is the parlor-car?” Bret asked the brakeman.
“Ain’t none.”