because it's something to mend. And read? Everything from the Rules of
the House tacked up on the door to spelling out the French short story
in the back of the Swell Set Magazine. It's getting on my nerves. Do
you know what I do Sunday mornings? No, you don't. Well, I go to
church, that's what I do. And I get green with envy watching the other
women there getting nervous about 11:45 or so, when the minister is
still in knee-deep, and I know they're wondering if Lizzie has basted
the chicken often enough, and if she has put the celery in cold water,
and the ice-cream is packed in burlap in the cellar, and if she has
forgotten to mix in a tablespoon of flour to make it smooth. You can
tell by the look on their faces that there's company for dinner. And
you know that after dinner they'll sit around, and the men will smoke,
and the women folks will go upstairs, and she'll show the other woman
her new scalloped, monogrammed, hand-embroidered guest towels, and the
waist that her cousin Ethel brought from Paris. And maybe they'll slip
off their skirts and lie down on the spare-room bed for a ten minutes'
nap. And you can hear the hired girl rattling the dishes in the
kitchen, and talking to her lady friend who is helping her wipe up so
they can get out early. You can hear the two of them laughing above
the clatter of the dishes--"

The fat man banged one fist down on the piano keys with a crash.

"I'm through," he said. "I quit to-night. I've got my own life to
live. Here, will you shake on it? I'll quit if you will. You're a born
housekeeper. You don't belong on the road any more than I do. It's now
or never. And it's going to be now with me. When I strike the pearly
gates I'm not going to have Saint Peter say to me, 'Ed, old kid, what
have you done with your talents?'"