“Henry,” said Mrs. Upton, one cold January morning, a great light of possibilities dawning upon her troubled soul, “don’t you want to take me to the opera next Saturday?  Calve is to sing in ‘Cavalleria,’ and I am very anxious to hear her again.”

“I am sorry, but I can’t,” Upton answered.  “I have an engagement with Bliss at the club on Saturday.  We’re going to take lunch and finish up our billiard tournament.  I’ve got a lead of forty points.”

“Oh!  Well, then, get me two seats, and I’ll take Molly,” said the astute match-maker.  “And never mind about their being aisle seats.  I prefer them in the middle of the row, so that everybody won’t be climbing over us when they go out and in.”

“All right; I will,” said Henry, and the seats were duly procured.

Saturday came, and Upton went to the club, according to his appointment with Walter; but Bliss was not there, nor had he sent any message of explanation.  Upton waited until three o’clock, and still the doctor came not; and finally he left the club and sauntered up the Avenue to his house, calling down the while imprecations upon the absent Walter.

“Hang these doctors!” he said, viciously.  “They seem to think professional engagements are the only ones worth keeping.  Off in his game, I fancy.  That’s the milk in the cocoanut.”

Five minutes later he entered his library, and was astonished to see Mrs. Upton there reading.

“Why, hullo!  You here?” he said.  “I thought you were at the opera.”

“No, I didn’t go,” Mrs. Upton replied, with a smile.

“There seems to be something in the air that prevents people from keeping their engagements to-day.  Bliss didn’t turn up,” said Henry.  “What did you do with the tickets?”

“I sent Molly hers by messenger, and told her I’d join her at the opera-house,” said Mrs. Upton, her face beaming.  “Did you say Walter didn’t go to the club?” she added, anxiously.

“Yes.  He’s a great fellow, he is!  Got no more idea about sticking to an engagement than a cat,” said Upton.  “Afraid of my forty points, I imagine.”

“Possibly; but maybe this will account for it,” said Mrs. Upton, with a sigh of relief, which hardly seemed necessary under the circumstances, handing her husband a note.

“What’s this?” asked Upton, scanning the address upon the envelope.

“A note—­from Walter,” Mrs. Upton replied.  “Read it.”

And Upton read as follows: 

  “SATURDAY MORNING, January —­, 189-.

“MY DEAR MRS. UPTON,—­I am sorry to hear that Henry is called away, but there are compensations.  If I cannot take luncheon with him, it will give me the greatest pleasure to listen to Calve in your company.  I may be a trifle late, but I shall most certainly avail myself of your kind thought of me.

  “Yours faithfully,
  “WALTER BLISS.”

“What the deuce is this?” asked Upton.  “I called away?  Who said I was called away?”