We played cribbage for an hour or two, and the Little Woman beat
me until finally I threw up my hands and quit.

"I can't stand it any longer, Mrs. Casey. Do you think he's in jail,
or just sulking at a movie somewhere?" I blurted. "Forgive my butting
in, but I wish you'd talk about it. You know you can, to me. Casey
Ryan is a friend and more than a friend: he's a pet theory of mine--a
fad, if you prefer to call him that.

"I consider him a perfect example of human nature in its unhampered,
unbiased state, going straight through life without deviating a hair's
breadth from the viewpoint of youth. A fighter and a castle builder; a
sort of rough-edged Peter Pan. Till he gums soft food and hobbles with
a stick because the years have warped his back and his legs, Casey Ryan
will keep that indefinable, bubbling optimism of spiritual youth. So
tell me all about him. I want to know who has licked, so far; luxury
or Casey Ryan."

The Little Woman laughed and picked up the cards, evening their edges
with sensitive fingers that had not been manicured so beautifully when
first I saw them.

"Well-sir," she drawled, making one word of the two and failing to keep
a little twitching from her lips, "I think it's been about a tie, so
far. As a husband--Casey's a darned good bachelor." Her chuckle
robbed that statement of anything approaching criticism. "Aside from
his insisting on cooking breakfast every morning and feeding me in bed,
forcing me to eat fried eggs and sour-dough hotcakes swimming in butter
and honey--when I crave grapefruit and thin toast and one French lamb
chop with a white paper frill on the handle and garnished with fresh
parsley--he's the soul of consideration. He wants four kinds of jam on
the table every meal, when fresh fruit is going to waste. He's bullied
the laundryman until the poor fellow's reached the point where he won't
stop if the car's parked in front and Casey's liable to be home; but
aside from that, Casey's all right.

"After serving time in the desert and rustling my own wood and living
on bacon and beans and sour-dough bread, I'm perfectly willing to
spend the rest of my life doing painless housekeeping with all the
modern built-in features ever invented; and buying my bread and cakes
and salads from the delicatessen around the corner. I never want to
see a sagebush again as long as I live, or feel the crunch of gravel
under my feet. I expect to die in French-heeled pumps and em