“Oh, do you think so?” said Mrs. Riddle.  “It is enough for us.  Mr. Riddle and I aren’t what you’d call bathers.  In fact, Mr. Riddle doesn’t bathe at all; I sponge!”

Real estate isn’t the only interest of the West.  We all read the advertising page of the local paper just as eagerly as we do the foreign news.  If I feel at all lonely or bored I generally advertise for something.  Once I wanted a high-school boy to drive the motor three afternoons a week.  The paper was still moist from the press when my applicants began to telephone.  I took their names and gave them appointments at ten-minute intervals all the following morning, only plugging the telephone when J——­ and I felt we must have some sleep.  In the morning, forgetting the little wad of paper we had placed in the bell, I took down the receiver to call the market, when a tired voice started as if I had pressed a button: 

“I saw your ‘ad’ in the paper last night, etc.”  When they arrived they ranged in age from sixteen to sixty.  The latter was a retired clergyman, the Rev. Mr. Bain, who said he drove for his wife, but (here he fitted his finger-tips together, and worked them back and forth in a manner that was a blend of jauntiness and cordiality) he thought he could fit us both in!

I blush to state that I selected a younger chauffeur!  Emboldened by the success of my first advertising venture, I decided to try again.  This time I wished to sell our superfluous old furniture.  The war has made me dislike anything about the place that isn’t really in use.  Having lived some years in Pennsylvania, and having amassed quite a collection of antique mahogany furniture, I felt justified in thinning out a few tables and odd pieces that our desirable bungalow is too small to hold.  The results weren’t as pronounced as before, but they quite repaid me.  I sold my best table to a general, which gave me a lot of confidence, but my greatest triumph was a hat-rack.  It was a barren, gaunt-looking affair, like a leafless tree in winter, but it was mahogany, and it was old.  Two ladies who were excitedly buying tables spied it, and exclaimed in rapture.  I rose to the occasion: 

“That is the most unusual piece I have,” I unblushingly gushed.  “It is solid mahogany and very old.  I never saw another like it.  Yes, I would sell it for twenty-five dollars.”

They both wanted it—­I was almost afraid it might make feeling between them, till I soothed the loser by selling her an old brass tea-kettle that I had picked up in a curiosity shop in Oxford years ago.  It was so old that it had a hole in it, which seemed to clinch the matter.  I sent for the packer the moment they were out of the house, and had the things boxed and away before they could change their minds.  When I showed J——­ the money, he said I was wasting my time writing, that he was sure I had a larger destiny.