Summer is now
setting in. _Item_:----shall I go on? Have we not here evidence
sufficiently discrepant to warrant a certain conjecture?"

"Male clothing, you said?" remarked Bill, a certain respect for my
perspicacity in her manner; "When?"

"The last time I came home with the milk," I replied. "The moon was
shining with some brilliance. As I looked out of my window before
getting into bed I saw some one moving over there. A further scrutiny
revealed to me a number of undeniable suits of pyjamas which were being
taken hurriedly from the line."

"You didn't say anything about it before?"

"No, because I attached no significance to the fact before. To tell you
the truth, I was under the impression that they were doing laundry work
and that, to conceal the fact more effectively, they were doing the male
garments at night. We had not then heard the item I was waiting
permission to enumerate."

"Is it one we know or one you're going to spring on us?" inquired the
lady, reaching out for my cup.

"You may know it," I replied. Mac was bending over his plate, rubbing
the ink in with deft fingers, and I saw his lowered glance flutter in my
direction for a moment.

"You mean Mac knows and you don't feel sure whether he's told me,"
interpreted Bill, shaking the tea-pot. I laughed.

"Into that we will not go," I said. "Suffice it that if he knows it was
because I told him."

"I _knew_ it was something you were ashamed of," she exclaimed,
triumphantly. "Go on: out with it!"

"How can I be ashamed of it since I am about to tell you?" I demanded,
incautiously.

"Why, because your love of scandal is so tremendous that you sacrifice
even yourself to it!" she answered.

"Thank you," I said. "Here is my item: They correspond."

"_That's_ nothing to go on!" cried the lady. I dared no more than smile.
Mac grinned as he lifted the plate from the gas stove and, giving it a
final polish, carried it to the press. "Oh, well!" went on Bill,
irrelevantly, "let us all be honest and say we're interested. If he
exists, he will come along some time."

The press creaked and the spokes turned. We both paused involuntarily as
Mac bent over and lifted the blankets. This is always a moment of
anxiety. It was a theory among us that when Samuel Johnson wrote "The
Vanity of Human Wishes" he had been pulling proofs from copper. Bill had
confessed to me that she could not help holding her breath, sometimes.
Her husband turned upon us with a sm