to Emma that that one week was
longer than the combined eleven. But she went through with colors
flying. Whatever Emma McChesney Buck did, she did well. But, then, T.
A. Buck had done his part well, too--so well that, on the final day,
Emma felt a sinking at her heart. He seemed so satisfied with affairs
as they were. He was, apparently, so content to drop all thought of
business when he left the office for his home.

Emma had planned a very special little dinner that evening. She wore a
very special gown, too--one of the new ones. T. A. noticed it at once,
and the dinner as well, being that kind of husband. Still, Annie, the
cook, complained later, to the parlor-maid, about the thanklessness of
cooking dinners for folks who didn't eat more'n a mouthful, anyway.

Dinner over,

"Well, Emma?" said T. A. Buck.

"Light your cigar, T. A.," said Emma. "You'll need it."

T. A. lighted it with admirable leisureliness, sent out a great puff of
fragrant smoke, and surveyed his wife through half-closed lids.
Beneath his air of ease there was a tension.

"Well, Emma?" he said again, gently.

Emma looked at him a moment appreciatively. She had too much poise and
balance and control herself not to recognize and admire those qualities
in others.

"T. A., if I had been what they call a homebody, we wouldn't be married
to-day, would we?"

"No."

"You knew plenty of home-women that you could have married, didn't you?"

"I didn't ask them, Emma, but----"

"You know what I mean. Now listen, T. A.: I've loafed for three
months. I've lolled and lazied and languished. And I've never been so
tired in my life--not even when we were taking January inventory.
Another month of this, and I'd be an old, old woman. I understand,
now, what it is that brings that hard, tired, stony look into the faces
of the idle women. They have to work so hard to try to keep happy. I
suppose if I had been a homebody all my life, I might be hardened to
this kind of thing. But it's too late now. And I'm thankful for it.
Those women who want to shop and dress and drive and play are welcome
to my share of it. If I am to be punished in the next world for my
wickedness in this, I know what form my torture will take. I shall
have to go from shop to shop with a piece of lace in my hand, matching
a sample of insertion. Fifteen years of being in the thick of it spoil
one for tatting and tea. The world is full of homebodies, I suppose.
A