Of course she was! Best in the city! Best in the whole world! But would Mrs. McGibney care for the tintypes? “It’s very wrong of you, Tommy!” Wrong? Shocking! Heartless! Wicked, shocking, heartless Tommy! Of course he was, and he admitted every word of it; but would Mrs. McGibney take care of the tintypes until he could send from “Maddy-gascar” for them? Tommy left the tintypes on the mantelpiece, hoping he was disturbing nothing by so doing; imploring Mrs. McGibney not to bother with them if she thought they would take up too much room, begging her to throw them in the ashes or burn them, or jump on them if they should be the slightest annoyance to her; then he went away. Back in five minutes. Well, after all, “Maddy-gascar” was pretty far away and he had heard stories about the Esquimaux there, so he would take the tintypes back with him; Clara might wonder where they were. Five minutes later. Back again. Perhaps Mrs. McGibney had better not say anything to anyone about the tintype matter. Bowing, bobbing, scraping. Oh, not a word would Mrs. McGibney say! Rest assured of that! Indeed, she had quite enough to do in attending to her own affairs. Mrs. McGibney promised to say nothing, and like a busy little housewife with too much to do to waste time gossiping, breathed not a word of it till McGibney came in. “It’s all Tommy’s fault!” said McGibney. “I’m afraid Clara is a good deal to blame,” said Mrs. McGibney. “Oh, yes, always stand up for the man, of course!” “Oh, yes, take the woman’s part every time, won’t you?” The next time the McGibneys saw Clara, there was no persuading her to go home. She had no home. “Because,” said Clara, “when we found there wasn’t no use in our trying to get along together, we just broke up and gave away everything in the rooms and went down the stairs and down the stoop together. We didn’t so much as say good-bye nor nothing; he went up the street and I went down.” “That’s right!” declared McGibney, “when two people can’t get along together, it’s best for them to part, I say!” “You say!” cried indignant Mrs. McGibney. And scornful Mrs. McGibney! “Well, I’m entitled to speak, ain’t I?” grumbled McGibney. “No!” firmly. “Leastwise, not when you talk like that.” She looked her scorn and continued: “No, Clara, there’s nobody dearer to any woman than her own husband.” Looked at McGibney as if he were a pile of wash just toppled over into the ash-pan. “Your husband will be with you when others are far away.” Looked at him as if he were two piles of wash toppled over into three ash-pans. “There ain’t any luck in any such advice as he’s giving you. I know how I love my own dear husband, and you know you’re the same, and you’ll find what the world is when you’re alone in it.” Glared her indignation, scorn, contempt for McGibney, who mumbled, with an air of sagacity, astonishing to himself: “Ain’t wimmen the queer things, though!”