“Good night.  Thank you a lot, Miss Nelly.  Church in the morning, remember!  Good night.”

“Good night.”

As it is well known that all playwrights labor with toy theaters before them for working models, Mr. Wrenn ran to earth a fine unbroken pasteboard box in which a ninety-eight-cent alarm-clock had recently arrived.  He went out for some glue and three small corks.  Setting up his box stage, he glued a pill-box and a match-box on the floor—­the side of the box it had always been till now—­and there he had the mahogany desks.  He thrust three matches into the corks, and behold three graceful actors—­graceful for corks, at least.  There was fascination in having them enter, through holes punched in the back of the box, frisk up to their desks and deliver magic emotional speeches that would cause any audience to weep; speeches regarding which he knew everything but the words; a detail of which he was still quite ignorant after half an hour of playing with his marionettes.

Before he went despairingly to bed that Saturday night he had added to his manuscript: 

Mr. Thorne says:  Here are the papers, sir.  As a great railway president you should—­

The rest of that was to be filled in later.  How the dickens could he let the public know how truly great his president was?

(Daughter, Miss Nelly, comes in.)

Miss Nelly: Father, I have come back to you, sir.

Mr. Warrington: My Daughter!

Nelly: Father, I have something to tell you; something—­

Breakfast at Mrs. Arty’s was always an inspiration.  In contrast to the lonely dingy meal at the Hustler Dairy Lunch of his Zapp days, he sat next to a trimly shirtwaisted Nelly, fresh and enthusiastic after nine hours’ sleep.  So much for ordinary days.  But Sunday morning—­that was paradise!  The oil-stove glowed and purred like a large tin pussy cat; it toasted their legs into dreamy comfort, while they methodically stuffed themselves with toast and waffles and coffee.  Nelly and he always felt gently superior to Tom Poppins, who would be a-sleeping late, as they talked of the joy of not having to go to the office, of approaching Christmas, and of the superiority of Upton’s Grove and Parthenon.

This morning was to be Mr. Wrenn’s first attendance at church with Nelly.  The previous time they had planned to go, Mr. Wrenn had spent Sunday morning in unreligious fervor at the Chelsea Dental Parlors with a young man in a white jacket instead of at church with Nelly.

This was also the first time that he had attended a church service in nine years, except for mass at St. Patrick’s, which he regarded not as church, but as beauty.  He felt tremendously reformed, set upon new paths of virtue and achievement.  He thought slightingly of those lonely bachelors, Morton and Mittyford, Ph.  D. They just didn’t know what it meant to a fellow to be going to church with a girl like Miss Nelly, he reflected, as he re brushed his hair after breakfast.