"Old Boy says it will be all right," she said, and I could see that she was exhausted by the rare exertion of thinking. Until you have heard your husband described as "Old Boy" by a half-naked chorus-girl who is slowly bleeding him to death, you have not realized how highly your self-restraint may be tested...
"I don't suggest more than that it will be an effort," I said. "My dear young lady, I speak with some knowledge. You were married for a few months to a husband whom you hardly saw and who spent what money he had like water. I have kept house for more than thirty years on an income which you would not think large, but which is bigger than anything you can hope for. I know something of men and their ways and their extravagances and humours. It will be a great change, and I only hope that you will prove equal to it." I pointed—not unkindly—at the litter in her room. "I trust for your sake as well as his that you will learn habits of tidiness."
"Is Old Boy a fusser?," she asked.
I wish to be judged by results. If you tell me that the end has justified the means, I give you complete freedom to say that I spoke of Arthur as one might speak of a cook when one's name had been furnished as a reference. I gave him a character—for his next employer. No, indeed, he was not what the young woman could fairly call a "fusser", but all men of his age had contracted certain habits. He abominated untidiness and unpunctuality—the necessary fruit of his business-training; though generous, he had long been compelled to be careful about money. I offered to shew her my books, but she said she didn't think she could understand them. And so on and so forth. He was very particular about his food, and in this respect Mrs. Templedown would have to be a veritable martinet—not only to the servants but to him.
"My dear young lady," I said, "you know what men of that age are like—or perhaps you still don't. My husband is essentially temperate, but he is also criminally injudicious. He thinks that an occasional glass of champagne—he cannot afford to drink it regularly—is good for him; I know better. Acidity... Whisky and soda—two, if he likes—, one glass of port and nothing else. The moment he takes liberties with himself, his digestion suffers, he cannot sleep—and you pay the penalty. Similarly with what he eats; he must never be given butcher's meat more than once a day, shell-fish of every kind are poison to him, and, though he will never admit it, any rich sweets tell their tale next day. I could give you a list, but you will find out for yourself... Smoking again ... one cigar does him no harm, after two he can hardly breathe; all the Spenworths are liable to bronchitis. And exercise. My husband was quite an athlete as a young man; he says he doesn't need exercise, but I know better. If I may speak quite openly, he suffers from what men call 'liver.' ... I should dearly like to give you a little list of things, if you won't think me impertinent; one does not live with a man for more than thirty years without coming to regard him as one's child..."
And, whether she liked it or not, then and there, I took pencil and paper and just jotted things down. He would never put on his winter underclothes unless some one reminded him; result—a week in bed with a severe chill...
"You make him out to be a complete crock," said Mrs. Templedown. Poor soul! one hardly looked for any great elegance from her...
"Not that, by any means," I told her, "but, at his age, a man has to be careful."
We were still at work on the list when her maid came in and whispered that she had to dress and be out to dinner in half an hour. She was, I understand, going to a dance.
"Not with Arthur!" I said.