cubeb cigarettes, and
they'd kind of disgust me with smoking."

"Oh, I do wish you would! It isn't that I care, but honestly, George, it
is so bad for you to smoke so much. Don't you think you could reduce the
amount? And George--I notice now, when you come home from these lodges
and all, that sometimes you smell of whisky. Dearie, you know I don't
worry so much about the moral side of it, but you have a weak stomach
and you can't stand all this drinking."

"Weak stomach, hell! I guess I can carry my booze about as well as most
folks!"

"Well, I do think you ought to be careful. Don't you see, dear, I don't
want you to get sick."

"Sick rats! I'm not a baby! I guess I ain't going to get sick just
because maybe once a week I shoot a highball! That's the trouble with
women. They always exaggerate so."

"George, I don't think you ought to talk that way when I'm just speaking
for your own good."

"I know, but gosh all fishhooks, that's the trouble with women! They're
always criticizing and commenting and bringing things up, and then they
say it's 'for your own good'!"

"Why, George, that's not a nice way to talk, to answer me so short."

"Well, I didn't mean to answer short, but gosh, talking as if I was a
kindergarten brat, not able to tote one highball without calling for the
St. Mary's ambulance! A fine idea you must have of me!"

"Oh, it isn't that; it's just--I don't want to see you get sick and--My,
I didn't know it was so late! Don't forget to give me those household
accounts for the time while I was away."

"Oh, thunder, what's the use of taking the trouble to make 'em out now?
Let's just skip 'em for that period."

"Why, George Babbitt, in all the years we've been married we've never
failed to keep a complete account of every penny we've spent!"

"No. Maybe that's the trouble with us."

"What in the world do you mean?"

"Oh, I don't mean anything, only--Sometimes I get so darn sick and tired
of all this routine and the accounting at the office and expenses
at home and fussing and stewing and fretting and wearing myself out
worrying over a lot of junk that doesn't really mean a doggone thing,
and being so careful and--Good Lord, what do you think I'm made for?
I could have been a darn good orator, and here I fuss and fret and
worry--"

"Don't you suppose I ever get tired of fussing? I get so bored with
ordering three meals a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year,
and ruining my eyes over