I admit heartily that Mrs. Omicron is not perfect. She ought to be, of
course; but she, alas! falls short of the ideal. Yet in some details
she can and does show the way to that archangel, her husband. When her
office and manufactory goes wrong, you, Mr. Omicron, are righteously
indignant and superior. You majestically wonder that with four women
in the house, etc., etc. But when you come home and complain that
things are askew in your masculine establishment, and that a period of
economy must set in, does she say to you with scorn: "Don't dare to
mention coffee to-night. I really wonder that with fourteen (or a
hundred and forty) grown men in your establishment you cannot produce
an ample and regular income?" No; she makes the best of it. She is
sympathetic. And you, Mr. Omicron, would be excessively startled and
wounded if she were not sympathetic. Put your imagination to work and
you will see how interesting are these comparisons.



IV


She is an amateur at her business, you say. Well, perhaps she is. But
who brought her up to be an amateur? Are you not content to carry on
the ancient tradition? As you meditate, and you often do meditate,
upon that infant daughter of yours now sleeping in her cot, do you
dream of giving her a scientific education in housekeeping, or do you
dream of endowing her with the charms that music and foreign languages
and physical grace can offer? Do you in your mind's eye see her
cannily choosing beef at the butcher's, or shining for your pleasure
in the drawing-room?