“I think,” said Clara, “that the champagne coolers are unnecessary.”

The solid silver champagne coolers adorned either side of the fireplace.

“As receptacles for potted ferns they are, it is true, not quite in the best of taste,” I admitted.  “We might leave them in the hall for umbrellas and canes.  But then they might be overlooked, and we must take no chances on a careless burglar.”

Clara sat down and began to laugh, which I confess was quite the natural thing to do.  Solid silver bread dishes holding sweet peas, individual almond dishes filled with matches, silver baskets for cigars and cigarettes crowded the room, with silver candlesticks sprouting from every ledge and table.  The dining-room was worse—­but then solid silver terrapin dishes and muffineers, not to mention the two dozen almond dishes left over from the parlor, are not at all appropriate decorations.

“I’m sure the burglars will never come,” said Clara, woman fashion.

“If there’s anything will keep them away,” I said, a little provoked, “it’s just that attitude of mind.”

“Well, at any rate, I do hope they’ll be quick about it, so we can leave this dreadful place.”

“They’ll never come if you’re going to watch them,” I said angrily.

We had quite a little quarrel on that point.

The month of June passed and still we remained in possession of our wedding silver.  Clara was openly discouraged and if I still clung to my faith, at the bottom I was anxious and impatient.  When July passed unfruitfully even our sense of humor was seriously endangered.

“They will never come,” said Clara firmly.

“My dear,” I replied, “the last time they came in July.  All the more reason that they should change to August.”

“They will never come,” said Clara a second time.

“Let’s bait the hook,” I said, trying to turn the subject into a facetious vein.  “We might strew a dozen or so of those individual dishes down the path to the road.”

“They’ll never come,” said Clara obstinately.

And yet they came.

On the second of August, about two o’clock in the morning I was awakened out of a deep sleep by the voice of my wife crying: 

“George, here’s a burglar!”

I thought the joke obvious and ill-timed and sleepily said so.

“But, George dear, he’s here—­in the room!”

There was something in my wife’s voice, a note of ringing exultation, that brought me bolt upright in bed.

“Put up your hands—­quick!” said a staccato voice.

It was true, there at the end of the bed, flashing the conventional bull’s-eye lantern, stood at last a real burglar.

“Put ’em up!”

My hands went heavenward in thanksgiving and gratitude.

“Make a move, you candy dude, or shout for help,” continued the voice, shoving into the light the muzzle of a Colt’s revolver, “and this for you’s!”