Slowly a mirthless and very unpleasant smile dawned upon his face. “It is unimportant,” she said. ”
He called for a hansom. Have you been inhaling the fumes inside
Missy’s car?” She had pushed the exact right button. Wood, I command you not to stir," vociferated the carpenter's better-half;
"recollect you'll be answerable to me. Mr. Every girl in the world practically, except a few of us who teach or type-write,
and then we’re underpaid and sweated—it’s dreadful to think how we are
sweated!” She had lost her generalization, whatever it was. And I am grateful to you. “So it’s like you’re a dead end?” He asked innocently. Wood had the
advantage of her husband in point of years, being on the sunny side of forty,—a
period pronounced by competent judges to be the most fascinating, and, at the
same time, most critical epoch of woman's existence,—whereas, he was on the
shady side of fifty,—a term of life not generally conceived to have any special
recommendation in female eyes. He sat with folded arms and knitted brows, thinking intently. .
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