five. "I am at a meeting down-town. Can't get things settled, so we
continue this evening. Run down and have supper with me, and perhaps,
who knows, a Bill Hart film might be around town!" There was Mrs.
Willard who knew just what to do, and off I could fly to see my husband.
You can't, on $1700 a year.

I hear people nowadays scold and roar over the pay the working classes
are getting, and how they are spending it all on nonsense and not saving
a cent. I stand it as long as I can and then I burst out. For I, too,
have tasted the joy of at last being able to get things we never thought
we would own and of feeling the wings of financial freedom feather out
where, before, all had been cold calculation: Can we do this? if so,
what must we give up? I wish every one on earth could feel it. I do not
care if they do not save a cent.

Only I do wish my Carl could have experienced those joys a little
longer. It was so good--so good, while it lasted! And it was only just
starting. Every new call he got to another university was at a salary
from one to two thousand dollars more than what we were getting, even at
Seattle. It looked as if our days of financial scrimping were gone
forever. We even discussed a Ford! nay--even a four-cylinder Buick! And
every other Sunday we had fricasseed chicken, and always, always a
frosting on the cake. For the first two months in Seattle we felt as if
we ought to have company at every meal. It did not seem right to sit
down to food as good as that, with just the family present. And it was
such fun to bring home unexpected guests, and to know that Mrs. Willard
could concoct a dream of a dish while the guests were removing their
hats; and I not having to miss any of the conversation from being in the
kitchen. Every other Sunday night we had the whole Department and their
wives to Sunday supper--sixteen of them. Oh dear, oh dear, money does