housekeeping money. It means her best silk stockings, and her diamond
sunburst that he's going to have made over into a La Valliere just as
soon as business is better. She loves it all, and her cheeks get
pinker and pinker, so that she really doesn't need the little dash of
rouge that she puts on 'because everybody does it, don't you know?'
She gets ready, all but her dress, and then she puts on a kimono and
slips out to the kitchen to make the gravy for the chicken because the
girl never can get it as smooth as he likes it. That's part of what
she calls going to the theater, and having a husband. And if there are
children--"

There came a little, inarticulate sound from the boy. But Emma's quick
ear caught it.

"No? Well, then, we'll call that one black mark less for you. But if
there are children--and for her sake I hope there will be--she's
father and mother to them. She brings them up, single-handed, while
he's on the road. And the worst she can do is to say to them, 'Just
wait until your father gets home. He'll hear of this.' But shucks!
When he comes home he can't whip the kids for what they did seven
weeks before, and that they've forgotten all about, and for what he
never saw, and can't imagine. Besides, he wants his comfort when he
gets home. He says he wants a little rest and peace, and he's darned
if he's going to run around evenings. Not much, he isn't! But he
doesn't object to her making a special effort to cook all those little
things that he's been longing for on the road. Oh, there'll be a seat
in Heaven for every traveling man's wife--though at that, I'll bet
most of 'em will find themselves stuck behind a post."

"You're all right!" exclaimed Emma McChesney's listener, suddenly.