assertion that he was a "highbrow," and that he decidedly disapproved
of any sort of vulgarity. Several times this came out when he found her
reading novels which were so coarsely realistic as to admit the sex and
sweat of the world.

"Even if they _are_ true to life," he said, "I don't see why it's
necessary to drag in unpleasant subjects. I tell you a fella gets too
much of bad things in this world without reading about 'em in books.
Trouble with all these 'realists' as you call 'em, is that they're such
dirty-minded hounds themselves that all they can see in life is the bad
side."

Una surmised that the writers of such novels might, perhaps, desire to
show the bad side in the hope that life might be made more beautiful.
But she wasn't quite sure of it, and she suffered herself to be
overborne, when he snorted: "Nonsense! These fellas are just trying to
show how sensational they can be, t' say nothing of talking like they
was so damn superior to the rest of us. Don't read 'em. Read pure
authors like Howard Bancock Binch, where, whenever any lady gets seduced
or anything like that, the author shows it's because the villain is an
atheist or something, and he treats all those things in a nice, fine,
decent manner. Good Gawd! sometimes a fella 'd think, to see you scrooge
up your nose when I'm shaving, that I'm common as dirt, but lemme tell
you, right now, miss, I'm a darn sight too refined to read any of these
nasty novels where they go to the trouble of describing homes that ain't
any better than pig-pens. Oh, and another thing! I heard you telling
Mrs. Sanderson you thought all kids oughta have sex education. My
_Gawd_! I don't know where you get those rotten ideas! Certainly not
from me. Lemme tell you, no kid of mine is going to be made nasty-minded
by having a lot of stuff like that taught her. Yes, sir, actually taught
her right out in school."

Una was sufficiently desirous of avoiding contention to keep to novels
which portrayed life--offices and family hotels and perspiratory
husbands--as all for the best. But now and then she doubted, and looked
up from the pile of her husband's white-footed black-cotton socks to
question whether life need be confined to Panama and Pemberton and
Schwirtz.

In deference to Mr. Schwirtz's demands on the novelists, one could
scarce even suggest the most dreadful scene in Una's life, lest it be
supposed that other women really are subject to such horror, or that
the statistic