, or the
art, or whatever you call it, of making two people one, is it not?"

"It certainly is," said Mr. Whitechoker. "But what of it?"

"The world does not recognize the unity," said the Idiot. "Take our good
proprietors, for instance. They were made one by yourself, Mr.
Whitechoker. I had the pleasure of being an usher at the ceremony,
yielding the position of best man gracefully, as is my wont, to the
Bibliomaniac. He was best man, but not the better man, by a simple
process of reasoning. Now no one at this board disputes that Mr. and Mrs.
Pedagog are one, but how about the world? Mr. Pedagog takes Mrs. Pedagog
to a concert. Are they one there?"

"Why not?" asked Mr. Brief.

"That's what I want to know--why not? The world, as represented by the
ticket-taker at the door, says they are not--or implies that they are
not, by demanding tickets for two. They attempt to travel out to Niagara
Falls. The railroad people charge them two fares; the hackman charges
them two fares; the hotel bills are made out for two people. It is the
same wherever they go in the world, and I regret to say that even in our
own home there is a disposition to regard them as two. When I spoke of
there being nine persons here instead of ten, Mr. Whitechoker himself
disputed my point--and yet it was not so much his fault as the fault of
Mr. and Mrs. Pedagog themselves. Mrs. Pedagog seems to cast doubt upon
the unity by providing two separate chairs for the two halves that make
up the charming entirety. Two cups are provided for their coffee. Two
forks, two knives, two spoons, two portions of all the delicacies of the
season which are lavished upon us out of season--generally after it--fall
to their lot. They do not object to being called a happy _couple_, when
they should be known as a happy single. Now what I want to know is why
the world does not accept the shrinkage which has been pronounced valid
by the church and is recognized by the individual? Can any one here tell
me that?"

[Illustration: "DEMANDS TICKETS FOR TWO"]

No one could, apparently. At least no one endeavored to. The Idiot looked
inquiringly at all, and then, receiving no reply to his question, he rose
from the table.

"I think," he said, as he started to leave the room--"I think we ought to
write that book. If we made it up of the things you people don't know, it
would be one of the greatest books of the century. At any rate, it would
be great enough in bulk to fill the bi