In the living-room of an unfashionable house on an unfashionable street, Mrs. Theodore Mix sat in stately importance at her desk, composing a vitriolic message to the unsympathetic world. As her husband entered, she glanced up at him with chronic disapproval; she was on the point of giving voice to it, not for any specific reason but on general principles, but Mr. Mix had learned something from experience, so his get-away was almost simultaneous with his entrance.

“Mail!” said Mr. Mix, and on the wing, he dropped it on his wife’s desk, and went on out of the room.

The mail consisted of one letter; it contained the check which Henry sent her regularly, on the first of each month.

She sat back for a moment, and stared out at the unfashionable street. Mr. Mix was always urging her to live in a better neighbourhood, 301 but with only her own two hundred and fifty a month, and four hundred more from Henry, she could hardly afford it,––certainly not while she gave so generously to the Reform League.

She thought of the big brick house on the hill and sighed profoundly. She would have made it a national shrine, and Henry––Henry was even worse than his uncle. He kept it full of people who were satisfied to squander the precious stuff of life by enjoying themselves. It made her sick, simply to think of Henry. People said he and Bob Standish were the two cleverest men that ever lived in town. Doubled the Starkweather business in two years. Directors of banks. Directors of the Associated Charities and trustees of the City Hospital. Humph! As if she didn’t know Henry’s capabilities. Just flippancy and monkey-tricks. And married to a girl who was a walking advertisement of exactly what every right-minded woman should revolt against. That girl to be the mother of children! Oh Lord, oh Lord, if Anna were a modern specimen, what would the next generation be?

She sighed again, and went back to the lecture she was composing. “The Influence of Dress on Modern Society.” Suddenly, she cocked her head and sniffed. She rose cautiously, as one who is about to trail suspicion. She went to the side-window, and peered out. From a little grape-arbor on the lawn, there floated to her the unmistakable odour of tobacco––yes, and she could see a curling wisp of smoke.

“Theodore!”

A pause. “Yes, dear.” Mr. Mix’s voice had taken on, some months ago, a permanent quality of langour; and never, since the day that he was laughed out of politics, had he regained his former dignity and impressiveness.

“Is that you––smoking again?”

“Why––”

“Are you? Answer me.”

“Why––yes, dear––I––”

“Come in here this minute.”

Mr. Mix emerged from the arbor. “Yes, dear?”

She brandished her forefinger at him. “I told you what would happen next time I caught 303 you. Not one single cent do you get out of me for many a long day, young man.... Come in here; I want you to listen to what I’ve written.”

Mr. Mix’s shoulders sagged, but he didn’t stop to argue. “Yes, dear,” he said, pacifically. “I’m coming.”

THE END