“My husband says actresses are not supposed to have husbands. If they have them, they keep them in the background.”
“That’s true. I know I am always surprised when I see that they’re trying to get divorces.”
Harvey was never so far in the background as when he appeared in the foreground. One seldom took notice of him unless he was out of sight, or at least out of hearing.
He was not effeminate; he was not the puerile, shiftless creature the foregoing sentences may have led you to suspect. He was simply a weakling in the strong grasp of circumstance. He could not help himself; to save his life, he could not be anything but Nellie Duluth’s husband.
Not a bad-looking chap, as men of his stamp go. Not much of a spine, perhaps, and a little saggy about the shoulders; all in all, rather a common type. He kept his thin moustache twisted, but inconsistently neglected to shave for several days—that kind of a man. His trousers, no matter how well made, were always in need of pressing and his coat was 17 wrinkled from too much sitting on the small of his back. His shirts, collars, and neckties were clean and always “dressy.” Nellie saw to that. Besides he always had gone in for gay colours when it came to ties and socks. His watch-fob was a thing of weight and pre-eminence. It was of the bell-clapper type. In the summer time he wore suspenders with his belt, and in the winter time he wore a belt with his suspenders. Of late he affected patent-leather shoes with red or green tops; he walked as if he despised the size of them.
Arriving at the snug little cottage, he was brought face to face with one of the common tragedies of a housekeeper’s life. The cook and the nursemaid, who also acted as waitress and chambermaid, had indulged in one of their controversies during his absence, and the former had departed, vowing she would never return. Here it was luncheon time and no one to get it! He knew that Bridget would be back before dinner time—she always did come back—but in the meantime what were they to do? There wasn’t a thing in the house.
He found himself wishing he had stayed in the city for luncheon. 18
Annie’s story was a long one, but he gathered from it that Bridget was wholly to blame for the row. Annie was very positive as to that.
“Have we any eggs?” asked the dismayed master.
“Eggs? How should I know, sir?” demanded Annie. “It’s Bridget’s place to know what’s in the pantry, not mine. The Lord knows I have enough to do without looking after her work.”