He often said, with a sound of pride: "We don't care a darn for all these would-be social climbers. The wife and I lead a regular Bohemian life. We know a swell little bunch of live ones, and we have some pretty nifty parties, lemme tell you, with plenty poker and hard liquor. And one-two of the bunch have got their own cars--I tell you they make a whole lot more coin than a lot of these society-column guys, even if they don't throw on the agony; and we all pile in and go up to some road-house, and sing, and play the piano, and have a real time." Conceive Una--if through the fumes of cheap cigarettes you can make out the low lights of her fading hair--sitting there, trying patiently to play a "good, canny fist of poker"--which, as her husband often and irritably assured her, she would never learn to do. He didn't, he said, mind her losing his "good, hard-earned money," but he "hated to see Eddie Schwirtz's own wife more of a boob than Mrs. Jock Sanderson, who's a regular guy; plays poker like a man." Mrs. Sanderson was a black-haired, big-bosomed woman with a face as hard and smooth and expressionless as a dinner-plate, with cackling laughter and a tendency to say, "Oh, hell, boys!" apropos of nothing. She was a "good sport" and a "good mixer," Mr. Schwirtz averred; and more and more, as the satisfaction of having for his new married mistress a "refined lady" grew dull, he adjured the refined lady to imitate Mrs. Sanderson. Fortunately, Mr. Schwirtz was out of town two-thirds of the time. But one-third of the time was a good deal, since for weeks before his coming she dreaded him; and for weeks after his going she remembered him with chill shame; since she hadn't even the whole-hearted enthusiasm of hating him, but always told herself that she was a prude, an abnormal, thin-blooded creature, and that she ought to appreciate "Ed's" desire to have her share his good times, be coarse and jolly and natural.