cious Ones ran every minute to the door to watch for the moving
van and came back to us with blue noses and icy hands. We began to
wonder if something had gone wrong. Perhaps a misunderstanding of the
address--illness or sudden death on the part of the man who had made the
engagement--perhaps--

I went around at last to make inquiries. A heavy, dusty person looked
into the soiled book and ran his finger down the page.

"That's right!" he announced. "Address all correct. Van on the way
around there now."

I hurried back comforted. I do not believe in strong language, but that
heavy individual with the soiled book was a dusty liar. There is no
other word to express it--if there was, and a stronger one, I would use
it. He was a liar by instinct and a prevaricator by trade. The van was
not at our door when I returned. Neither had it started in our
direction.

We had expected to get down to our new quarters by noon and enjoy a
little lunch at a near-by restaurant before putting things in order. At
lunch time the van had still not appeared, and there was no near-by
restaurant. The Precious Ones began to demand food and the Little Woman
laboriously dug down into several receptacles before she finally brought
forth part of a loaf of dry bread and a small, stony lump of butter. But
to the Precious Ones it meant life and renewed joy.

The moving man came at one o'clock and in a great hurry. He seemed
surprised that we were ready for him. There were so many reasons why he
had not come sooner that we presently wondered how he had been able to
get there at all. He was a merry, self-assured villain, and whistled as
he and his rusty assistant hustled our things out on the pavement,
leaving all the doors open.

We were not contented with his manner of loading. The pieces we were
proud of--our polished Louis-XIVth-Street furniture--he hurried into the
darkness of his mighty van, while those pieces which in every household
are regarded more as matters of use than ornament he left ranged along
the pavement for all the world to gape at. Now and then he paused to
recount incidents of his former varied experience and to try on such of
my old clothes as came within his reach. I realized now why most of the
things he wore did not fit him. His wardrobe was the accumulation of
many movings.

This contempt for our furniture was poorly concealed. He suggested,
kindly enough, however, that for living around in flats it was too
light, and a