ks, and Mirabelle would be
rich. Half a million? That was the minimum. Three quarters? That was
more likely. A million dollars? It wasn't in the least improbable. And
Mirabelle had told him more than once, and in plain English, that she
planned to divide with him--not equally, but equitably. She had said
that she would give him a third of her own inheritance. Hm ... a
hundred and fifty to three hundred thousand, say. And what couldn't he
do with such a benefice? Of course, he would have to profess some
slight interest in the League for awhile, but gradually he could slide
out of it--and he hoped that he could engineer Mirabelle out of it.
Mirabelle made herself too conspicuous. But even if Mirabelle stuck
to her colours, Mr. Mix needn't hesitate to drift away--that is, after
he had received his settlement. Late in August, he would make a trip
to New York on business--reform business--and in the glare of the
flaming-arcs, he would compensate himself for his years of penance.
Mirabelle was sharp, but (he smiled reminiscently) in Chicago he had
once managed to hoodwink her; and what man has done, man can do.

"It's nothing to laugh at, Theodore!"

He came to himself with a start. "I wasn't laughing."

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes, dear. Certainly."

"Very well. We'll go out, then."

"Out where?"

"Out to the vestibule, just as I said."

"But Mirabelle! We're more than a mile from the station!"

"We're going out to the vestibule, Theodore. I don't propose to get
left."

A moment ago, Mr. Mix had been arguing that the smiles and sympathy of
his fellow-passengers were cheap at the price, but when he rose and
escorted Mirabelle down the aisle, he was telling himself that the
old-fashioned principle was best--the wife's property ought to pass
under the absolute control of the husband. He was strengthened in this
conviction by the fact that two fashionable young men in the corner
were snickering at him.

"Home again," said Mirabelle, with a sigh of relief. "Home again, and
time to get to work. And I'm just itching for it."

Mr. Mix said nothing: he was wondering how soon he could get to his
private cache, and whether he had better put in a supply of young
onions in addition to cloves and coffee beans. He hadn't yet
discovered whether Mirabelle had a particularly keen scent: but he
would take no chances.

"Stop staring at those girls, Theodore!"

"I may be married," said Mr. Mix, defensively. "But I'm dash