“Rats, now, Paul, you’ve never really what you could call whined.  Sometimes—­I’m always blowing to Myra and the kids about what a whale of a realtor I am, and yet sometimes I get a sneaking idea I’m not such a Pierpont Morgan as I let on to be.  But if I ever do help by jollying you along, old Paulski, I guess maybe Saint Pete may let me in after all!”

“Yuh, you’re an old blow-hard, Georgie, you cheerful cut-throat, but you’ve certainly kept me going.”

“Why don’t you divorce Zilla?”

“Why don’t I!  If I only could!  If she’d just give me the chance!  You couldn’t hire her to divorce me, no, nor desert me.  She’s too fond of her three squares and a few pounds of nut-center chocolates in between.  If she’d only be what they call unfaithful to me!  George, I don’t want to be too much of a stinker; back in college I’d ’ve thought a man who could say that ought to be shot at sunrise.  But honestly, I’d be tickled to death if she’d really go making love with somebody.  Fat chance!  Of course she’ll flirt with anything—­you know how she holds hands and laughs—­that laugh—­that horrible brassy laugh—­the way she yaps, ’You naughty man, you better be careful or my big husband will be after you!’—­and the guy looking me over and thinking, ’Why, you cute little thing, you run away now or I’ll spank you!’ And she’ll let him go just far enough so she gets some excitement out of it and then she’ll begin to do the injured innocent and have a beautiful time wailing, ’I didn’t think you were that kind of a person.’  They talk about these demi-vierges in stories—­”

“These whats?”

“—­but the wise, hard, corseted, old married women like Zilla are worse than any bobbed-haired girl that ever went boldly out into this-here storm of life—­and kept her umbrella slid up her sleeve!  But rats, you know what Zilla is.  How she nags—­nags—­nags.  How she wants everything I can buy her, and a lot that I can’t, and how absolutely unreasonable she is, and when I get sore and try to have it out with her she plays the Perfect Lady so well that even I get fooled and get all tangled up in a lot of ‘Why did you say’s’ and ‘I didn’t mean’s.’  I’ll tell you, Georgie:  You know my tastes are pretty fairly simple—­in the matter of food, at least.  Course, as you’re always complaining, I do like decent cigars—­not those Flor de Cabagos you’re smoking—­”

“That’s all right now!  That’s a good two-for.  By the way, Paul, did I tell you I decided to practically cut out smok—­”

“Yes you—­At the same time, if I can’t get what I like, why, I can do without it.  I don’t mind sitting down to burnt steak, with canned peaches and store cake for a thrilling little dessert afterwards, but I do draw the line at having to sympathize with Zilla because she’s so rotten bad-tempered that the cook has quit, and she’s been so busy sitting in a dirty lace negligee all afternoon, reading about some brave manly Western hero, that she hasn’t had time to do any cooking.  You’re always talking about ’morals’—­meaning monogamy, I suppose.  You’ve been the rock of ages to me, all right, but you’re essentially a simp.  You—­”