In the living-room of an unfashionable house on an unfashionable
street, Mrs. Theodore Mix sat in stately importance at her desk,
composing a vitriolic message to the unsympathetic world. As her
husband entered, she glanced up at him with chronic disapproval; she
was on the point of giving voice to it, not for any specific reason
but on general principles, but Mr. Mix had learned something from
experience, so his get-away was almost simultaneous with his
entrance.
"Mail!" said Mr. Mix, and on the wing, he dropped it on his wife's
desk, and went on out of the room.
The mail consisted of one letter; it contained the check which Henry
sent her regularly, on the first of each month.
She sat back for a moment, and stared out at the unfashionable street.
Mr. Mix was always urging her to live in a better neighbourhood, but
with only her own two hundred and fifty a month, and four hundred more
from Henry, she could hardly afford it,--certainly not while she gave
so generously to the Reform League.
She thought of the big brick house on the hill and sighed profoundly.
She would have made it a national shrine, and Henry--Henry was even
worse than his uncle. He kept it full of people who were satisfied to
squander the precious stuff of life by enjoying themselves. It made
her sick, simply to think of Henry. People said he and Bob Standish
were the two cleverest men that ever lived in town. Doubled the
Starkweather business in two years. Directors of banks. Directors of
the Associated Charities and trustees of the City Hospital. Humph! As
if she didn't know Henry's capabilities. Just flippancy and
monkey-tricks. And married to a girl who was a walking advertisement
of exactly what every right-minded woman should revolt against. _That_
girl to be the mother of children! Oh Lord, oh Lord, if Anna were a
modern specimen, what would the _next_ generation be?
She sighed again, and went back to the lecture she was composing. "The
Influence of Dress on Modern Society." Suddenly, she cocked her head
and sniffed. She rose cautiously, as one who is about to trail
suspicion. She went to the side-window, and peered out. From a little
grape-arbor on the lawn, there floated to her the unmistakable odour
of tobacco--yes, and she could see a curling wisp of smoke.
"_Theodore!_"
A pause. "Yes, dear." Mr. Mix's voice had taken on, some months ago, a
permanent quality of langour; and never, since the day that he was
laughed out of politics, had he regained his former dignity and
impressiveness.
"Is that _you_--smoking again?"
"Why--"
"_Are_ you? Answer me."
"Why--yes, dear--I--"
"Come in here this minute."
Mr. Mix emerged from the arbor. "Yes, dear?"
She brandished her forefinger at him. "I _told_ you what would happen
next time I caught you. Not one single cent do you get out of _me_
for many a long day, young man.... Come in here; I want you to listen
to what I've written."
Mr. Mix's shoulders sagged, but he didn't stop to argue. "Yes, dear,"
he said, pacifically. "I'm coming."
THE END