Her mind wandered into strange speculations. She had once viewed the streets of Philadelphia from a car window on her way to Washington. She thought of the city as blocks and blocks of small brick houses, with pointed roofs, standing close together, row after row, each with a little square bit of lawn beside brown stone front steps. She imagined herself and Martin in one of these; she was keeping house again, and she had a cook and perhaps a maid, and of course she would have an automobile, since Martin had the agency for one. Her life was full of friendships; she was able to dress beautifully; Martin’s associates admired her, thought her handsome, regal; she took a keen interest in her children’s schooling,—for, of course, there would be children,—a twelve-year-old Frank, and perhaps a younger Frank, as well, and one daughter, a girl different from either Etta or Nettie, a tall girl with a fine carriage, gracious, dignified, beautiful. How she would enjoy dressing her, and how proud Martin would be of his children, and of herself,—her poise and beauty, her fine clothes and the way she wore them, her graciousness to his friends and her capable management of his home....
“No man ever had a better wife than I have; no man was ever prouder of his wife and children; no man was ever more grateful. You’re a wonder, dear,—have always been a wonder! Other men envy me,—envy me your beauty and your goodness and your devotion. Everything I’ve amounted to in this life I owe to you; you’ve made me what I am; you’ve made our home what it is! My friends look at you and think how lucky I’ve been. I look back on all the hard years we’ve been together, on all the tough times we’ve had and somehow pulled through, and I know it’s to you, and not to me, the credit belongs. Oh, yes, it does! You’ve made my home for me, you’ve given me my children, you’ve taken the burden of everything on your shoulders, you’ve carried us both along and made our venture as man and wife, as father and mother, successful. I owe everything in the world to you, and to me you’re the loveliest and dearest woman in the world....”
It was Roy’s voice that she heard in the hush of the warm Sunday afternoon, and it blended with the queer thoughts of the woman who sat so still in her rocker as to be thought asleep.
“No—no, Roy,” Alice interrupted him. “We’ve done it together. Money doesn’t count with me,—really it doesn’t. Sometimes I protest a bit when I think of what the children have to do without, but there is nothing that can take the place of the love we all share. We’re a little group, a little clan that’s always clung together, and I’d rather be cold and hungry and see the children shabby and needy than have one less of them, or have discord amongst us. You and I have had our trials and our disagreements, but we’ve always loved each other and loved the children....”
Alice was crying now, softly crying with her head against her husband’s shoulder and his arm about her, and the hot prick of tears came to Jeannette’s eyes and a burning trickle ran down the side of her nose. She dropped her forehead into her hand and shielded her face with her palm.
“We’ll weather this difficulty as we’ve weathered many another,” Roy said consolingly. “I’ll go into the insurance company’s office to-morrow and fix it up with them; we’ll pay them half on the fifth, and I’m sure they’ll give me thirty days on the balance. Then you can settle what’s most pressing and give the others a little on account.... Why say,—we’ve faced worse times than this! Do you remember that Christmas when Ralph was only three and we’d been out trying to find the kids some cheap presents and I lost that ten-dollar bill out of my pocket? And do you remember when I was so rotten sick with pneumonia and the doctor thought I was going to get T.B.? And do you remember the time when Baby Roy was coming and you fell downstairs and broke your collar-bone? ... I tell you, Alice, we’ve lived, you and I! We haven’t had very much to do it on, but we’ve lived!”
“You’re such a comfort, Roy. You’re always so sweet about everything and you always put heart into me. You’re wonderful!”
“It’s you that are the wonder, Alice,—the most wonderful wife a man ever had!”
Their heads turned toward one another in mutual inclination and their lips met lovingly. They sat on for awhile in silence, Alice’s head once more against her husband’s shoulder, their hands linked, the man’s arm about his wife.
There came a faint sound from somewhere in the house.