The band progressed, as you will presently hear.

The women were proud and happy in the work they were doing, and Mary was proud because they were proud, happy because they were happy, and all the time she was nursing another secret, no one dreaming what was in her mind.
Along in the third month, Wally and Helen came back from their wedding tour.

Mary looked once, and she saw there was something wrong with Wally.
A shadow of depression hung over him--a shadow which he tried to hide with bursts of cheerfulness.

But his old air of eagerness was gone--that air with which he had once looked at the future as a child might stare with delighted eyes at a conjurer drawing rabbits and roses out of old hats and empty vases.
In a word, he looked disenchanted, as though he had seen how the illusion was produced, how the trick was done, and was simultaneously abating his applause for the performer and his interest in the show.
"He's found her out," thought Mary, and with that terrible frankness which sometimes comes unbidden to our minds she added with a sigh, "I was always afraid he would." Wally had taken a house near the country club--one of those brick mansions surrounded by trees and lawns which are somehow reminiscent of titled society and fox hunters in buckskin and scarlet.

There Helen was soon working her way to the leadership of the younger set.
She seldom called at the house on the hill.
"I'm generally dated up for the evening, and you're never there in the daytime.