"Well I do. How would you like to be another Aunt Charlotte? Or a Lottie, for that matter?"
"There are worse fates, mother dear. For that matter, I know a lot of married women who envy me my independence. I don't know any married women I envy."
"That's complimentary to your father, I must say."
"Now, don't be personal, mother. I'd rather have Dad for a father than any father I've ever seen. Why, he's darling. I love the way he doesn't get me; and his laugh; and his sweetness with you; and his fineness and dignity; and the way he's kept his waistline; and his fondness for the country. Oh, everything about him as a father. But as the type of husband for me Dad lacks the light touch.... What a conversation! I'm surprised at you, Belle Kemp!"
One day, in mid-winter, Henry Kemp came home looking more lined and careworn than usual. It was five o'clock. His wife was in their bedroom. He always whistled an enquiring note or two when he let himself in at the front door. It was a little conjugal call that meant, "Are you home?" In her babyhood days Charley always used to come pattering and staggering down the long hall at the sound of it. But though he caught the child up in his arms he always kissed his wife first. Not that Belle had always been there. She was not the kind of wife who makes a point of being home to greet her lord when he returns weary from the chase. As often as not a concert, or matinee, or late bridge delayed her beyond her husband's homecoming time. Then the little questioning whistle sounded plaintively in the empty apartment, and Henry went about his tidying up for dinner with one ear cocked for the click of the front-door lock.
To-night he whistled as usual. You almost felt the effort he made to pucker his lips for the sound that used to be so blithe. Belle answered him. "Yoo-hoo!" For the first time he found himself wishing she had been out. He came into their bedroom. A large, gracious, rose-illumined room it was. Belle was standing before the mirror doing something to her hair. Her arms were raised. She smiled at him in the mirror. "You're home early."
He came over to her, put his arm about her and kissed her rather roughly. He was still in love with his somewhat selfish wife, was Henry Kemp. And this kiss was a strange mixture of passion, of fear, and defiance and protest against the cruel circumstance that was lashing him now. Here he was, the lover, the generous provider, the kind and tolerant husband and father, suddenly transformed by a malicious force he was powerless to combat, into a mendicant; an asker instead of a giver; a failure who had grown used to the feel of success. So now he looked at this still-pretty woman who was his wife, and his arm tightened about her and he kissed her hard, as though these things held for him some tangible assurance.
"Henry!" she shrugged him away. "Now look at my hair!" He looked at it. He looked at its reflection in the mirror; at her face, unlined and rosy; at his own face near hers. He was startled at the contrast, so sallow and haggard he seemed.
He rubbed a hand over his cheek and chin. "Gosh! I look seedy."
"You need a shave," Belle said, lightly. She turned away from the mirror. He caught her arm, faced her, his face almost distorted with pain.