I've got what they call the home instinct. Give me a yard
or so of cretonne, and a photo of my married sister down in Iowa,
and I can make even a boarding-house inside bedroom look like a
place where a human being could live. If I had been as wise at
twenty as I am now, Gabie, I could have married any man I pleased.
But I was what they call capable. And men aren't marrying capable
girls. They pick little yellow-headed, blue-eyed idiots that don't
know a lamb stew from a soup bone when they see it. Well, Mr. Man
didn't show up, and I started in to clerk at six per. I'm earning
as much as you are now. More. Now, don't misunderstand me, Gabe.
I'm not throwing bouquets at myself. I'm not that kind of a girl.
But I could sell a style 743 Slimshape to the Venus de Milo
herself. The Lord knows she needed one, with those hips of hers.
I worked my way up, alone. I'm used to it. I like the excitement
down at the store. I'm used to luxuries. I guess if I was a man
I'd be the kind thy call a good provider--the kind that opens wine
every time there's half an excuse for it, and when he dies his
widow has to take in boarders. And, Gabe, after you've worn tai-
lored suits every year for a dozen years, you can't go back to
twenty-five-dollar ready-mades and be happy.
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