“What my John knows, I know; and what I know, he knows.  There’s never been a time, and there ain’t one now, when I’m beat out and my bones are hangin’ stiff in me—­and I get that way sometimes even now—­that I don’t go to John and say, ’John, dear, get yer arms around me and hold me tight, I’m that tired,’ and down goes everything, and he’s got my head on his shoulder and pattin’ my cheeks, and up I get all made over new, and him too.  That’s the way we get on, and that’s the way they all ought to get on if—­”

She paused, stretching her neck as if for more air.

“God save me!  Will ye hear me run on?  And ye sittin’ there drinkin’ it all in, not known’ a word about the women and carin’ less.  Ye’ve got to forgive me, for I’m like John’s alarm-clock in this wife business, and when I’m wound up I keep strikin’ until I run down.  Whew!  What a heat I got myself into!  Now go on, Mr. O’Day.  What’ll I pay him, and when’s he comin?”

Felix waved his hand deprecatingly.  “And so you never think, Mistress Kitty, that it may be the woman’s fault?”

“Yes, sometimes it is.  Faults on both sides, maybe.  If it’s the woman’s fault, it always begins when she lets her man do all the work.  Look up and down ’The Avenue’ here!  Every wife is helpin’ her husband in his business, and every wife knows as much about it as the man does.  That ain’t the way up around Central Park.  Half of ’em ain’t out of bed till purty nigh lunch-time.  I’ve heard ’em all talk; and worse yet, they glory in it.  What can ye expect when there ain’t five of ’em to a block who knows whether her husband has made a million in the past year or whether he’s flat broke, except what he tells her?  No wonder, when trouble comes, they shift husbands as they do their petticoats, and try it over again with a new one!”

“And if she takes this last plunge, when will she wake up to her mistake?” asked Felix, in a low voice.

“Oh, ye can’t always tell.  It’ll generally run on for a while until she starts up and stares about her like she’s been in a trance or a nightmare, and then the dear God help her after that, for nobody else can—­ nor will!  That’s the worst of it—­nor will!  John was readin’ out to me the other night about the Red Cross Society for pickin’ up wounded off the battle-field, and carryin’ them in where they can be patched up again and join their companies when they get well.  Why don’t they have a Red Cross for some of the poor girls and wives who are hurted—­hundreds of ’em lyin’ all over the lot—­and patch ’em up and bring ’em back to their homes?  Now I’m done.”

“No!  Not yet.  One more question.  After the last nightmare, what?”