they, too, had glanced
up, and their smiles were among the broadest.

Mr. Mix had an uncomfortable intuition that something had blown. Could
he have been spotted, in New York, by any one from home?

"What's the joke?" he inquired of the nearest member.

"Got a new name for you--Pitchfork Mix." Mr. Mix spread a thin smile
over his lips. "Supposed to be funny, is it?"

"Some folks think so."

"Where'd it originate? Let me in on the joke."

"Where _would_ it originate? You're some strenuous author--aren't you?
Didn't know you had that much acid in your system."

"Author? Author?"

From the table at his side, the man picked up three pamphlets. One was
entitled The Model Statute, the second was Local Problems, and the
third was Reform and Regeneration. To each of the three, Mr. Mix's
name was signed. He took them up, and scrutinized them closely.

"Why, what's so remarkable about these?"

"Well, that one on Local Problems isn't so bad, but you know, Mix,
when you come out in print and tell us that sooner or later you're
going to stop the manufacture and sale of playing-cards, and--"

"What?"

"And stop all public dancing, and--"

Mr. Mix looked moonstruck. "Who ever said _that_?"

"And hand us out sumptuary laws--regulate the length of women's skirts
and--"

Mr. Mix caught his breath sharply. "Where's _that_? Where is it? Show
it to me! Show it to me!"

Obligingly, the member showed him; and as Mr. Mix stared at the pages,
one by one, the veins in his cheeks grew purple. Mirabelle had edited
his manuscript,--thank Heaven she hadn't tampered with the Mix
amendment of the blue-law ordinance, which Mr. Mix had so carefully
phrased to checkmate Henry, without at the same time seeming to do
more than provide conservative Sunday regulation,--but in the other
articles Mirabelle had shovelled in a wealth of her own precious
thoughts, clad in her own bleak style, and as soon as he had read two
consecutive paragraphs, Mr. Mix knew that the worst wasn't yet to
come--it had arrived.

The other man was amusedly calm. "Well, you're not going to deny you
wrote it, are you? Too bad, in a way, though. Oh, I don't blame you
for getting it off your chest, if you really mean it--a man might as
well come out in the open--but I'm afraid too many people'll think it
just funny."

Mr. Mix produced a smile which was a sickly attempt to register
nonchalant poise. "What do you hear about it?"

"Oh, what I said. Say Mix, do yo