My wife is a most observant woman.

"Love," she said to me, apparently apropos of nothing at all, "must be a farce in a country where there is no moonlight."

I nodded assent. It didn't strike me as being worth much more.

"I wonder what is the trouble?" she said, after a pause.

"Trouble?" I repeated inquiringly.

"Across the street," she explained, "there were two Silhouettes in the parlor Monday night, and one went away early; the other had her handkerchief to her eyes——"

"Oho! So you've been keeping cases, eh?"

"I don't get your vernacular," she retorted meaningly.

"Well—er—what's this got to do with moonlight?" I demanded, changing the subject.

"It was moonlight last night, and it's moonlight to-night," she replied, "and all the derbies on the hat-rack over there belong to the men in the family, and it's nine-thirty. It seems to me that if I were the Man Silhouette, I'd at least write, but the mailman hasn't stopped there but once in four days, and then he only delivered a circular, because I got one myself and I recognized it by the big red type on the envelope, and—I think it's a shame, that's what I do, and I don't care, so there!"

You know, when a woman doesn't care, so there, she usually gets all worked up about it. It's a way she has of showing her indifference.

"Have you seen him yet—the Man Silhouette?" I asked.

"No," she replied; "but I thought, if he came to-night, it's so bright and all, I'd get a peep at his face. It would be awful if he were a dissipated man!"

"You don't know her, and you don't know him, and you don't know her folks, and what difference does it make to you whether he runs a church or a roulette wheel?" I asked mildly.

I went into the house and—well, yes, I might as well admit it—sat at the window where I could command a clear view of the parlor opposite. This affair was getting to be personal with me. And then I think a fellow ought to show an interest in anything that is close to his wife's sympathies. So while she watched on the porch, I watched from the window.

He didn't come that night, and he didn't come the next night. But while I was watching—not obtrusively, you know, but just sympathetically—a messenger boy ran up the steps. The door opened halfway and he delivered a message and waited a moment, and then left, dashing up street on his wheel. I was pondering, when our telephone bell rang. I answered. A sweet young voice called:

"Exchange, give me Mount Vernon 1,000, please—the Hotel Belvedere."

I broke in.

"Hello! Hello! You're on a busy wire! Exchange——"

"Oh, please, sir, please get off the line and let me have it! This is very important!"

I mumbled something and hung up the receiver. Then I went back to my window and gazed across the street again. The hall light was turned on—the first time I had noticed it alone. The pale blind was down, but the light—why, a Silhouette at the telephone!

I ran to the kitchen, where my wife was messing with pots and pans.

"I've got it, I've got it!" I screamed, waltzing her around.

"You act like it," she said, laughing and disengaging herself. "What have you got?"

"She's calling him up at the Belvedere! Telegram—telephone in hall—light—Silhouette—go look!"

She ran all the way to the window, and then I had to sit down and tell her just how I knew it must be the Man Silhouette. All the circumstances were too plain. There was no doubt of it. Her intuition backed up my judgment. We sat on the porch until after ten, and then a closed taxi was driven rapidly to the little walk. A man, bundled in a big coat, handed the chauffeur something and dismissed him, and hurried up to the porch. The door swung open without summons and he entered.

Ten minutes later my wife said:

"I wonder if the belt has slipped off down at the power house?"

I grunted.

"My dear," I said, "if you had quarreled and if you were making up on a moonlight night, would you bother about wasting kilowatts of electricity?"

She wrinkled her forehead.

"But the moonlight is on the outside of the house."

"That's just where you're mistaken," I ventured. "It was all outside, but they're getting all they need of it through the cracks on the sides of the curtain."

She sighed.

"And moreover," I added, "I'm going to bed."

And I did; and there were no Silhouettes. At midnight or worse my wife said:

"I don't know much else about that man, but I know one thing."

"What's that?" I asked.

"He's stingy," was her reply; and I'll admit, myself, that he might have turned up the lights just a little while.

But all this is foreign to the House. We awoke next morning to a busy experience, for our friends descended upon us. You know there is one stage through which you will have to pass when you buy a house, and for the sake of a name we'll call it the Inspection of Your Intimates.

The ink is hardly dry on the deed, or mortgage, or agreement, or whatever your instrument of conveyance may be, before you are on the telephone inviting them out to look at you. You want all your friends to see your new house—to make faces at it and chuck it under the chin, to talk baby talk to it and admire your pantry.

The first crack out of the box Mrs. Smith walks in, sizes up the exterior with a sweeping glance as she enters, sniffs the atmosphere laden with fresh smells and as you stand at judgment remarks:

"H'm!"

Now, "H-m!" may mean any one of twenty-seven things. You stand on one foot and wait.

"My goodness, what small rooms!" is the next remark, which is somewhat softened by the addition, "but the wall paper is very pretty," and the reservation damns the praise again, "in places."

All this time you are alternating flushes and chills. Your spinal column is a sort of marathon track for emotions. You go through the house with her and show the bathroom with its shower, over which she enthuses, and you are in the seventh heaven of satisfaction. But the minute she reaches the third floor, which is a sort of three-quarter floor, your heart sinks again, because she remarks:

"I suppose you will just use these little rooms for storage!" And you had fondly thought of occupying them yourself and renting the second floor to help out your investment.

Mrs. Smith thinks your piano is too brilliant on the hardwood floor, and when she has gone home you shove a rug under it. Mrs. Jones comes next day and says it sounds dead on the rug, and you put it back on the floor. Mrs. Brown gets you to try it both ways in her presence and concludes that it lacks elevation and would sound better if you took it upstairs; while Mrs. Harris conceives the novel idea of turning the conservatory into a music-room for the benefit of the base tiling.

Your prides-in-chief are the linen closet, the big closets in each room, the gas range, the refrigerator built into the wall and the plumbing fixtures. And you are a bit peeved when Mrs. Johnson passes every one of these features by with calm indifference and raves over an unimportant railing you've had hammered onto the back porch. Nearly every one of your Intimates comments on the fact that your yard looks like a quarry, but you assure each one that William is going to put on a top soil and seed it down and you are going to plant a turnip and substitute a peach tree for the oak that was struck by lightning. You work yourself up into a human catalogue of advantages as you describe your wonderful plans, and then your Intimate shakes her head smilingly.

"My dear," she says, like a blooming icicle, "John and I had all these plans when we owned a house, and we never did get our yard fixed. You have no idea of the work and the expense and the disappointments! And don't plant any Government seeds. They never come up."

It's an odd coincidence that your Congressman has just supplied you with a lot of radish, onion, lettuce, and other seeds, and that you have been lying awake nights passing resolutions of thanks to the Agricultural Department.

But there is one who comes—Heaven bless her!—who goes into seven fits of joy and envies you your happiness. You love her because of it—and because she is your mother.