e thread of her remarks. Moreover, having now
finished her breakfast, she was inclined for a little light reading. One
of the subjects allied to the matter of dietary on which she felt deeply
was the question of reading at meals. She was of the opinion that the
strain on the eye, coinciding with the strain on the digestion, could
not fail to give the latter the short end of the contest; and it was a
rule at her table that the morning paper should not even be glanced at
till the conclusion of the meal. She said that it was upsetting to begin
the day by reading the paper, and events were to prove that she was
occasionally right.

All through breakfast the New York Chronicle had been lying neatly
folded beside her plate. She now opened it, and, with a remark about
looking for the report of her yesterday's lecture at the Butterfly Club,
directed her gaze at the front page, on which she hoped that an editor
with the best interests of the public at heart had decided to place her.

Mr. McCall, jumping up and down behind his glasses, scrutinised her face
closely as she began to read. He always did this on these occasions, for
none knew better than he that his comfort for the day depended
largely on some unknown reporter whom he had never met. If this unseen
individual had done his work properly and as befitted the importance of
his subject, Mrs. McCall's mood for the next twelve hours would be
as uniformly sunny as it was possible for it to be. But sometimes the
fellows scamped their job disgracefully; and once, on a day which lived
in Mr. McCall's memory, they had failed to make a report at all.

To-day, he noted with relief, all seemed to be well. The report
actually was on the front page, an honour rarely accorded to his wife's
utterances. Moreover, judging from the time it took her to read the
thing, she had evidently been reported at length.

"Good, my dear?" he ventured. "Satisfactory?"

"Eh?" Mrs. McCall smiled meditatively. "Oh, yes, excellent. They have
used my photograph, too. Not at all badly reproduced."

"Splendid!" said Mr. McCall.

Mrs. McCall gave a sharp shriek, and the paper fluttered from her hand.

"My dear!" said Mr. McCall, with concern.

His wife had recovered the paper, and was reading with burning eyes. A
bright wave of colour had flowed over her masterful features. She was
breathing as stertorously as ever her son Washington had done on the
previous night.

"Washington!"

A basilisk glare