"Do women go much to them?" I asked, choosing this question as a safe
one.

"_Much_!" she screamed. "They don't go at all! They _can't_!
They won't _let_ us! To be sure, there are some that have rooms
where ladies can go with their friends who are members, and have lunch or
dinner; but as for seeing the inside of the club-house proper, where
these great creatures"--she indicated her husband--"are sitting up,
smoking and telling stories, it isn't to be dreamed of."

Her husband laughed. "You wouldn't like the smoking, Dolly."

"Nor the stories, some of them," she retorted.

"Oh, the stories are always first-rate," he said, and he laughed more
than before.

"And they never gossip at the clubs, Mr. Homos--never!" she added.

"Well, hardly ever," said her husband, with an intonation that I did not
understand. It seemed to be some sort of catch-phrase.

"All I know," said Mrs. Makely, "is that I like to have my husband belong
to his club. It's a nice place for him in summer; and very often in
winter, when I'm dull, or going out somewhere that he hates, he can go
down to his club and smoke a cigar, and come home just about the time I
get in, and it's much better than worrying through the evening with a
book. He hates books, poor Dick!" She looked fondly at him, as if this
were one of the greatest merits in the world. "But I confess I shouldn't