er Tims nor Mrs. Tims seemed to be conscious that without
variations these same remarks had been made night after night, week
after week, month after month.

"How's Mr. Sage?" was the question with which Mrs. Tims always
followed the reference to the bouncing of Jimmy.

"Like Johnny Walker, still going strong," glibly came the reply,
just as it came every other night. "He was asking about you to-day,"
added Tims.

"About me?" Mrs. Tims turned, all attention, her cooking for the
time forgotten.

"Yes, wanted to know when I was going to divorce you."

"Don't be silly, Jim," she cried. "What did he say, really now?" she
added as she turned once more to the stove.

"Oh! he just asked if you were well," replied Tims, more interested
in demonstrating with the person of his son how an aeroplane left
the ground than in his wife's question.

"Anything else?" enquired Mrs. Tims, prodding a potato with a fork
to see if it was done.

Tims was not deceived by the casual tone in which the question was
asked. He was wont to say that, if his wife wanted his back teeth,
she would get them.

"Nothing, my dear, only to ask if his Nibs was flourishin'," and
with a gurgle of delight the aeroplane soared towards the ceiling.

Mrs. Tims had not forgotten the time when Malcolm Sage visited her
several times when she was ill with pneumonia. She never tired of
telling her friends of his wonderful knowledge of household affairs.
He had talked to her of cooking, of childish ailments, of shopping,
in a way that had amazed her. His knowledge seemed universal. He had
explained to her among other things how cracknel biscuits were made
and why croup was so swift in its action.

Tims vowed that the Chief had done her more good than the doctor,
and from that day Malcolm Sage had occupied chief place in Mrs.
Tims's valhalla.

"Quaint sort o' chap, the Chief," Tims would remark sometimes in
connection with some professional episode.

"Pity you're not as quaint," would flash back the retort from Mrs.
Tims, whose conception of loyalty was more literal than that of her
husband.

Supper finished and his Nibs put to bed, Tims proceeded to enjoy his
pipe and evening paper, whilst Mrs. Tims got out her sewing. From
time to time Tims's eyes would wander over towards the telephone in
the corner.

Finally he folded up the paper, and proceeded to knock out the ashes
from his pipe preparatory to going to bed. His eyes took a last look
at the tele