My boy is only on his second
piece of pie, and I won't have his appetite spoiled."
V
PINK TIGHTS AND GINGHAMS
Some one--probably one of those Frenchmen whose life job it was to
make epigrams---once said that there are but two kinds of women: good
women, and bad women. Ever since then problem playwrights have been
putting that fiction into the mouths of wronged husbands and building
their "big scene" around it. But don't you believe it. There are four
kinds: good women, bad women, good bad women, and bad good women. And
the worst of these is the last. This should be a story of all four
kinds, and when it is finished I defy you to discover which is which.
When the red stuff in the thermometer waxes ambitious, so that fat men
stand, bulging-eyed, before it and beginning with the ninety mark
count up with a horrible satisfaction--ninety-one--ninety-two--ninety-
three--NINETY FOUR! by gosh! and the cinders are filtering into your
berth, and even the porter is wandering restlessly up and down the
aisle like a black soul in purgatory and a white duck coat, then the
thing to do is to don those mercifully few garments which the laxity
of sleeping-car etiquette permits, slip out between the green curtains
and fare forth in search of draughts, liquid and atmospheric.
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