At about nine o’clock next morning, in a suite at the Hotel Cosmopolis, Mrs. Cora Bates McCall, the eminent lecturer on Rational Eating, was seated at breakfast with her family.  Before her sat Mr. McCall, a little hunted-looking man, the natural peculiarities of whose face were accentuated by a pair of glasses of semicircular shape, like half-moons with the horns turned up.  Behind these, Mr. McCall’s eyes played a perpetual game of peekaboo, now peering over them, anon ducking down and hiding behind them.  He was sipping a cup of anti-caffeine.  On his right, toying listlessly with a plateful of cereal, sat his son, Washington.  Mrs. McCall herself was eating a slice of Health Bread and nut butter.  For she practised as well as preached the doctrines which she had striven for so many years to inculcate in an unthinking populace.  Her day always began with a light but nutritious breakfast, at which a peculiarly uninviting cereal, which looked and tasted like an old straw hat that had been run through a meat chopper, competed for first place in the dislike of her husband and son with a more than usually offensive brand of imitation coffee.  Mr. McCall was inclined to think that he loathed the imitation coffee rather more than the cereal, but Washington held strong views on the latter’s superior ghastliness.  Both Washington and his father, however, would have been fair-minded enough to admit that it was a close thing.

Mrs. McCall regarded her offspring with grave approval.

“I am glad to see, Lindsay,” she said to her husband, whose eyes sprang dutifully over the glass fence as he heard his name, “that Washy has recovered his appetite.  When he refused his dinner last night, I was afraid that he might be sickening for something.  Especially as he had quite a flushed look.  You noticed his flushed look?”

“He did look flushed.”

“Very flushed.  And his breathing was almost stertorous.  And, when he said that he had no appetite, I am bound to say that I was anxious.  But he is evidently perfectly well this morning.  You do feel perfectly well this morning, Washy?”

The heir of the McCall’s looked up from his cereal.  He was a long, thin boy of about sixteen, with pale red hair, sandy eyelashes, and a long neck.

“Uh-huh,” he said.

Mrs. McCall nodded.

“Surely now you will agree, Lindsay, that a careful and rational diet is what a boy needs?  Washy’s constitution is superb.  He has a remarkable stamina, and I attribute it entirely to my careful supervision of his food.  I shudder when I think of the growing boys who are permitted by irresponsible people to devour meat, candy, pie—­” She broke off.  “What is the matter, Washy?”

It seemed that the habit of shuddering at the thought of pie ran in the McCall family, for at the mention of the word a kind of internal shimmy had convulsed Washington’s lean frame, and over his face there had come an expression that was almost one of pain.  He had been reaching out his hand for a slice of Health Bread, but now he withdrew it rather hurriedly and sat back breathing hard.