one to say. Married or single?"

"Married," Matilda choked out.

"Her married name?"

"Jones."

"Angelica Simpson Jones. Good. Very euphonious. And how many little
nieces and nephews am I the happy uncle of?"

"She--she has no children."

"That's too bad, for I have a particular fondness for children,"
sorrowed Mr. Pyecroft. "Still, that also simplifies matters, lessening
considerably the percentage of chances for regrettable lapses of
memory."

He pursued his genealogical inquiries into all possibly useful
details. And then he sat meditative for a while, gazing amiably about
his family circle. And it was while they were all thus sitting silent,
in what in the dim light of the one shaded electric bulb might have
seemed to an observer the silence of intimacy, that Jack, who had
slipped cautiously downstairs, walked in, behind him Mary.

"Matilda, what's this mean?" he demanded, with a bewildered look.
"We've been wondering why you didn't come upstairs."

Mrs. De Peyster turned in her chair, and held her breath, like one
beneath the guillotine. Matilda arose, shaking.

"Who's this man, Matilda?" Jack continued.

"He--ah--er--he's--"

"And, pray, Matilda, who is this?" politely inquired the arisen Mr.
Pyecroft, blandly assuming command of the situation.

"Who am I? Well, you certainly have nerve--" the astounded Jack was
beginning.

"He's Mr. Jack," Matilda put in. "Jack De Peyster."

"Ah, young Mr. De Peyster!" Mr. Pyecroft's eyebrows went up slightly
and a shrewd light flashed into his rounded eyes and was at once gone,
and again his face was blandly clerical. "It is, indeed, a pleasure
to meet you, Mr. De Peyster. And, pray, who is this?" with a suave
gesture toward Mary.

"That, sir, is my wife!" Jack announced, stiff with anger.

Again Mr. Pyecroft's eyes flashed shrewdly, and again were clerically
rounded.

"My dear sir, that is, indeed, surprising. I have seen no public
notice of your marriage. And I watch the marriage announcements
quite closely--which is rather natural, for, if I may be permitted
to mention it, I myself am frequently called upon to perform the holy
rites." His face clouded with what seemed a painful suspicion. "I
trust, sir, that you are really married?"

"Why, damn you--"

"Sir, you must not thus address the cloth!" sternly interposed Mr.
Pyecroft. "It is our duty to speak frankly, and to make due inquiry
into the propriety of such relations. However, since you say so