en ambassador to Portugal and friend to
Henry James and John Hay.

Sec. 2

It hurt a little, but Una had to accept the fact that Beatrice Joline
was no more likely to invite her to the famous and shabby old house of
the Jolines than was Mrs. Truax to ask her advice about manicuring. They
did, however, have dinner together on an evening when Miss Joline
actually seemed to be working late at the office.

"Let's go to a Cafe des Enfants," said Miss Joline. "Such a party! And,
honestly, I do like their coffee and the nice, shiny, bathroom walls."

"Yes," said Una, "it's almost as much of a party to me as running a
typewriter.... Let's go Dutch to the Martha Washington."

"Verra well. Though I did want buckwheats and little sausages.
Exciting!"

"Huh!" said Una, who was unable to see any adventurous qualities in a
viand which she consumed about twice a week.

Miss Joline's clean litheness, her gaiety that had never been made
timorous or grateful by defeat or sordidness, her whirlwind of nonsense,
blended in a cocktail for Una at dinner. Schwirtz, money difficulties,
weariness, did not exist. Her only trouble in the entire universe was
the reconciliation of her admiration for Miss Joline's amiable
superiority to everybody, her gibes at the salesmen, and even at Mr.
Truax, with Mamie Magen's philanthropic socialism. (So far as this
history can trace, she never did reconcile them.)

She left Miss Joline with a laugh, and started home with a song--then
stopped. She foresaw the musty room to which she was going, the
slatternly incubus of a man. Saw--with just such distinctness as had
once dangled the stiff, gray scrub-rag before her eyes--Schwirtz's every
detail: bushy chin, stained and collarless shirt, trousers like old
chair-covers. Probably he would always be like this. Probably he would
never have another job. But she couldn't cast him out. She had married
him, in his own words, as a "good provider." She had lost the bet; she
would be a good loser--and a good provider for him.... Always,
perhaps.... Always that mass of spoiled babyhood waiting at home for
her.... Always apologetic and humble--she would rather have the old,
grumbling, dominant male....

She tried to push back the moment of seeing him again. Her steps
dragged, but at last, inevitably, grimly, the house came toward her. She
crept along the moldy hall, opened the door of their room, saw him--

She thought it was a stranger, an intruder. But it was