of an angel, Mr. Prohack would not have minded, and his night would not have been thereby upset; for he regarded her as a beautiful natural phenomenon is regarded by a scientist, lovingly and wonderingly, and he was incapable of being irritated for more than a few seconds by anything that might be done or said by this forest creature of the prime who had strayed charmingly into the twentieth century.  He was a very fortunate husband.

No!  The eventfulness of the night originated in reflection upon the relations between Sissie and Ozzie Morfey.  If thoughts could take physical shape and solidity, the events of the night would have amounted to terrible collisions and catastrophes in the devil-haunted abysses of Mr. Prohack’s brain.  The forces of evil were massacring all opponents between three and four a.m.  It was at this period Mr. Prohack was convinced that Sissie, in addition to being an indescribably heartless daughter, was a perfect fool hoodwinked by a perfect ass, and that Ozzie’s motive in the affair was not solely or chiefly admiration for Sissie, but admiration of the great fortune which, he had learnt, had fallen into the lap of Sissie’s father.  After five o’clock, according to the usual sequence, the forces of evil lost ground, and at six-thirty, when the oblong of the looking-glass glimmered faintly in the dawn, Mr. Prohack said roundly:  “I am an idiot,” and went to sleep.

“Now, darling,” said Eve when he emerged from the bathroom.  “Don’t waste any more time.  I want you to give me your opinion about something downstairs.”

“Child,” said Mr. Prohack.  “What on earth do you mean—­’wasting time’?  Haven’t you insisted, and hasn’t your precious doctor insisted, that I must read the papers for an hour in bed after I’ve had my breakfast in bed?  Talk about ‘wasting time’ indeed!”

“Yes, of course darling,” Eve concurred, amazingly angelic.  “I don’t mean you’ve been wasting time; only I don’t want you to waste any more time.”

“My mistake,” said Mr. Prohack.

From mere malice and wickedness he spun out the business of dressing to nearly its customary length, and twice Eve came uneasily into the bedroom to see if she could be of assistance to him.  No nurse could have been so beautifully attentive.  During one of her absences he slipped furtively downstairs into the drawing-room, where he began to strum on the piano, though the room was yet by no means properly warm.  She came after him, admirably pretending not to notice that he was behaving unusually.  She was attired for the street, and she carried his hat and his thickest overcoat.

“You’re coming out,” said she, holding up the overcoat cajolingly.

“That’s just where you’re mistaken,” said he.

“But I want to show you something.”

“What do you want to show me?”

“You shall see when you come out.”

“Is it by chance the bird of the mountains that I am to see?”