WHEN Wigglewax is on the street, a charming smile adorns his face; to
every dame he haps to meet, he bows with courtly, old world grace. His
seat, when riding in a car, to any girl he’ll sweetly yield; and women
praise him near and far, and say he is a Chesterfield. Throughout the
town, from west to east, the man for chivalry is famed. “The Bayards are
not all deceased,” the women say, when he is named. At home this Bayard
isn’t thus; his eye is fierce, his face is sour; he looks around for
things to cuss, and jaws the women by the hour. His daughters tremble at
his frown, and wonder why he’s such a bear; his wife would like to jump
the town, and hide herself most anywhere. But if a visitor drops in, his
manner changes with a jerk, he wears his false and shallow grin, and
bows like some jimtwisted Turk. Then for his daughters and his wife he
wears his smile serene and fat, and callers say, “No sordid strife can
enter such a home as that!” A million frauds like Wigglewax are smirking
on the streets today, and when at eve they seek their shacks, they’ll
beef and grouch, the old stale way.
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