er face was very beautiful to see.

ONE HUNDRED PER CENT

They had always had two morning papers--he his, she hers. The _Times_.
Both. Nothing could illustrate more clearly the plan on which Mr. and
Mrs. T.A. Buck conducted their married life. Theirs was the morning calm
and harmony which comes to two people who are free to digest breakfast
and the First Page simultaneously with no--"Just let me see the inside
sheet, will you, dear?" to mar the day's beginning.

In the days when she had been Mrs. Emma McChesney, travelling saleswoman
for the T.A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, New York, her perusal
of the morning's news had been, perforce, a hasty process, accomplished
between trains, or in a small-town hotel 'bus, jolting its way to the
depot for the 7.52; or over an American-plan breakfast throughout which
seven eighths of her mind was intent on the purchasing possibilities of
a prospective nine o'clock skirt buyer. There was no need now of haste,
but the habit of years still clung. From eight-thirty to eight
thirty-five A.M. Emma McChesney Buck was always in partial eclipse
behind the billowing pages of her newspaper. Only the tip of her topmost
coil of bright hair was visible. She read swiftly, darting from war news
to health hints, from stock market to sport page, and finding something
of interest in each. For her there was nothing cryptic in a headline
such as "Rudie Slams One Home"; and Do pfd followed by dotted lines and
vulgar fractions were to her as easily translated as the Daily Hint From
Paris. Hers was the photographic eye and the alert brain that can film a
column or a page at a glance.

Across the table her husband sat turned slightly sidewise in his chair,
his paper folded in a tidy oblong. He read down one column, top of the
next and down that, seriously and methodically; giving to toast or
coffee-cup the single-handed and groping attention of one whose interest
is elsewhere. The light from the big bay window fell on the printed page
and cameoed his profile. After three years of daily contact with it,
Emma still caught herself occasionally gazing with appreciation at that
clear-cut profile and the clean, shining line of his hair as it grew
away from the temple.

"T.A.," she had announced one morning, to his mystification, "you're the
Francis X. Bushman of the breakfast table. I believe you sit that way
purposely."

"Francis X--?" He was not a follower of the films.

Emma elucidated