"Very well," said Skinner.
A few days later Skinner said to Honey, as he stretched his long legs under the table and sipped his second demi-tasse, "Well, Honey, I've joined the Pullman Club for keeps. It only costs a dollar and a half a week."
"It's well worth the money," said Honey.
Skinner regarded his beautiful little wife through half-closed eyes. He was puzzled. What curious change had been wrought in this exponent—this almost symbol—of thrift that she should actually encourage him in the pursuit of the ruinous course into which he'd been thrust by the wonderful dress suit! He said nothing, but he jotted down in his little book:—
| Dress-Suit Account | |
| Debit | Credit |
To operating expenses: | |
The trip into town in the Pullman each day was a social event with Skinner. He looked forward to it and what he learned was each night a subject of gossip at the dinner table.
"It's a regular 'joy ride' and I'm getting all kinds of good out of it," said he enthusiastically one evening. "By Jove, clothes are a good commercial proposition."
"Don't talk about the commercial side of it, Dearie. Tell me about the 'gold bugs.'"
"They're wonderful fellows," said Skinner, with the air of a man who had always been accustomed to traveling with such people and was now unbending to confide familiar items of special interest to some unsophisticated listener. "You'd find them fascinating."
"They 're just like other men, are n't they?"