“I’m all right,” he said, huskily.

“Pie,” proceeded Mrs. McCall, in her platform voice.  She stopped again abruptly.  “Whatever is the matter, Washington?  You are making me feel nervous.”

“I’m all right.”

Mrs. McCall had lost the thread of her remarks.  Moreover, having now finished her breakfast, she was inclined for a little light reading.  One of the subjects allied to the matter of dietary on which she felt deeply was the question of reading at meals.  She was of the opinion that the strain on the eye, coinciding with the strain on the digestion, could not fail to give the latter the short end of the contest; and it was a rule at her table that the morning paper should not even be glanced at till the conclusion of the meal.  She said that it was upsetting to begin the day by reading the paper, and events were to prove that she was occasionally right.

All through breakfast the New York Chronicle had been lying neatly folded beside her plate.  She now opened it, and, with a remark about looking for the report of her yesterday’s lecture at the Butterfly Club, directed her gaze at the front page, on which she hoped that an editor with the best interests of the public at heart had decided to place her.

Mr. McCall, jumping up and down behind his glasses, scrutinised her face closely as she began to read.  He always did this on these occasions, for none knew better than he that his comfort for the day depended largely on some unknown reporter whom he had never met.  If this unseen individual had done his work properly and as befitted the importance of his subject, Mrs. McCall’s mood for the next twelve hours would be as uniformly sunny as it was possible for it to be.  But sometimes the fellows scamped their job disgracefully; and once, on a day which lived in Mr. McCall’s memory, they had failed to make a report at all.

To-day, he noted with relief, all seemed to be well.  The report actually was on the front page, an honour rarely accorded to his wife’s utterances.  Moreover, judging from the time it took her to read the thing, she had evidently been reported at length.

“Good, my dear?” he ventured.  “Satisfactory?”

“Eh?” Mrs. McCall smiled meditatively.  “Oh, yes, excellent.  They have used my photograph, too.  Not at all badly reproduced.”

“Splendid!” said Mr. McCall.

Mrs. McCall gave a sharp shriek, and the paper fluttered from her hand.

“My dear!” said Mr. McCall, with concern.

His wife had recovered the paper, and was reading with burning eyes.  A bright wave of colour had flowed over her masterful features.  She was breathing as stertorously as ever her son Washington had done on the previous night.

“Washington!”

A basilisk glare shot across the table and turned the long boy to stone—­all except his mouth, which opened feebly.

“Washington!  Is this true?”