Skinner's Dress Suit

Skinner thought with a humorous chuckle how Honey had said, "Dearie, I believe you're jealous of Tom Lewis."

"Perhaps I am," the miserable Skinner had admitted.

Skinner pictured the effect of exposure in all sorts of dramatic ways. But not once did he see himself suffering – only Honey. That's what worried him. He could bear pain without flinching, but he could not bear seeing other persons bear pain – particularly Honey. He knew he could throw himself on her mercy and confess and that she would forgive him because she'd know he did it on her account. But the hurt, the real hurt, would be hers to bear – and Skinner loved Honey.

Whenever Skinner had felt apprehensive or blue because of his self-promotion and the consequent difficulties he found himself plunged into, he had looked at his little book, and the credit side of the dress-suit account had always cheered him. But this infallible method was not infallible to-night. Going out on the train Skinner had the "blues" and "had them good." Gloom was closing in on all sides; he could n't tell why, unless the growing fear of exposure to Honey was taking hold on his subconsciousness and manifesting itself in chronic, indefinite apprehension.

At Meadeville, he purposely avoided Black, his next-door neighbor, with whom he customarily walked home from the depot – for Skinner was not the man to inflict an uncordial condition upon an innocent person.

When Skinner reached home, Honey drew him gently into the dining-room and pointed to the table. As she began, "Look, Dearie, oysters, and later – beefsteak! Think of it! Beefsteak!" – the now familiar formula that had come to portend some new extravagance, – Dearie stopped her.

"Don't, Honey, don't tell me what you've got for dinner, course by course. Give me the whole thing at once, or give me a series of surprises as dinner develops."

"I think you're horrid to stop me," Honey pouted reproachfully. "If I tell you what I 've got, you'll enjoy it twice as much – once in anticipation, once in realization."

"But what does this wonderful layout portend or promise?"

"To do good is a privilege, is n't it?"

"Granted."

"Then it's a promise," was Honey's cryptic answer.

Honey had certain little obstinacies, one of which was a way of teasing Dearie by making him wait when he wanted to know a thing. It was no use – Skinner could n't budge her.

"I'll wait," said he.

But all the circumstances pointed to the probability of a new "touch," which did not add greatly to his appetite.

After his demi-tasse, Skinner said to Honey, "Come, Honey, spring it."

"Not till you 've got your cigar. I want you to be perfectly comfortable."

Skinner lighted up, leaned back in his chair, and affected – so far as he was able – the appearance of indulgent nonchalance.

"Shoot."

Honey leaned her elbows on the table, rested her chin in the little basket formed by her interlacing fingers, and looked at Dearie in a way that she knew to be particularly engaging and effective.

"I 've always wanted to do a certain thing," she began. "You have always been my first concern, but now – I want to do something very personal – very much for my own pleasure. Will you promise to let me do it?"

"You bet I will," said Skinner; "nothing's too good for you!"

Skinner was genuinely and enthusiastically generous. Also, it would be a good scheme to indulge Honey, since he might have to ask her indulgence later on.

"I had a letter from mother this morning."

"Indeed?" There was little warmth in Skinner's tone. "I suppose she spoke pleasantly, not to say flatteringly, of me."

"Now, Dearie, don't talk that way. I know mother is perfectly unreasonable about you."

"She came darned near making me lose you. That's the only thing I've got against her."

"She has n't really anything against you – she only thinks she has," observed Honey.

"The only thing she's got against me is that she acted contrary to my advice and lost her money. She's hated me ever since!"

"It is wrong of her, but we 're not any of us infallible. Besides, she's my mother – and I can't help worrying about her."

"Why worry?"

"The interest on her mortgage comes due and she can't pay it."

"If she'd only listened to me and not taken the advice of that scalawag brother-in-law of yours, she would n't have any mortgage to pay interest on."

"She only got a thousand dollars. At five per cent, that's fifty dollars a year."

Skinner swallowed hard to keep down the savage impulse that threatened to manifest itself in profanity whenever he thought of Honey's mother and his weakling brother-in-law.

"Honey," he said grimly, "does your mother in that letter ask you to help her out with that interest?"

Honey lifted her head proudly. "She does n't ask me anything. She does n't have to. She only tells me about it."

"Yes, she does n't have to."

"You know I 've always wanted to do something for her, and I've never been able to. I'm ashamed to neglect her now, when we're living so well and dressing so well – and you have your raise. It's only a dollar a week."

"Have you any more relatives who have a speculative tendency?" Skinner began with chill dignity.

"Now, Dearie!" Honey began to cry and Skinner got up from the table and went over and kissed her.

She had married him against mother's advice and had stood by him like a brick, and he'd do anything for her. He stroked her glossy hair. "You have always wanted to do something for her, have n't you? You're a good girl! Do it! Send her a dollar a week!"

Skinner resumed his place at the table. This was the climax, he thought, the ne plus ultra of it all! He was to contribute a dollar a week to his mother-in-law to make up a loss caused by the advice of a detested, silly-ass brother-in-law, who had always hated him, Skinner. Surely, the dress-suit account had reached the debt limit! He took out his little book and jotted down: —

"You don't know how happy you've made me," said Honey, "and I 'm so proud of you – such strength of character – just like old Solon Wright, you're doing this for one you positively dislike, Dearie! – moral discipline!"

"Moral discipline, your grandmother!" snapped Skinner; then softly, "I'm doing it for one I love."

"I would n't have mentioned it if you hadn't got your raise. You know that!"

His raise! Skinner thought much about "his" raise as he lay in bed that night. Had he gone too far to back out, he wondered? By Jove, if he did n't back out, his fast-diminishing bank account would back him out! The thing would work automatically. Probably in his whole life Skinner had never suffered so much disgust. Think of it! He must go on paying mother-in-law a dollar a week forever and ever, amen! No, he'd be hanged if he'd do it! He'd tell Honey the whole thing in the morning and throw himself on her mercy. The resolution gave him relief and he went to asleep.

But he did n't tell Honey in the morning. He was afraid to hurt her. He thought of his resolution of the night. It's so easy to make conscience-mollifying resolves in the night when darkness and silence make cowards of us. No, he could n't tell her now. He'd tell her when he got home to dinner.

Meantime, things were doing in the private office of McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc.

"I've thought it over this far, Perk," said McLaughlin.