“Oh, yes, always stand up for the man, of course!”
“Oh, yes, take the woman’s part every time, won’t you?”
The next time the McGibneys saw Clara, there was no persuading her to go home. She had no home.
“Because,” said Clara, “when we found there wasn’t no use in our trying to get along together, we just broke up and gave away everything in the rooms and went down the stairs and down the stoop together. We didn’t so much as say good-bye nor nothing; he went up the street and I went down.”
“That’s right!” declared McGibney, “when two people can’t get along together, it’s best for them to part, I say!”
“You say!” cried indignant Mrs. McGibney. And scornful Mrs. McGibney!
“Well, I’m entitled to speak, ain’t I?” grumbled McGibney.
“No!” firmly. “Leastwise, not when you talk like that.” She looked her scorn and continued:
“No, Clara, there’s nobody dearer to any woman than her own husband.” Looked at McGibney as if he were a pile of wash just toppled over into the ash-pan. “Your husband will be with you when others are far away.” Looked at him as if he were two piles of wash toppled over into three ash-pans. “There ain’t any luck in any such advice as he’s giving you. I know how I love my own dear husband, and you know you’re the same, and you’ll find what the world is when you’re alone in it.” Glared her indignation, scorn, contempt for McGibney, who mumbled, with an air of sagacity, astonishing to himself:
“Ain’t wimmen the queer things, though!”