Mrs. Larry stood looking at the now silent telephone. Certainly Claire was taking the thing splendidly. If only Jimmy knew what was going on! Yes, decidedly, Jimmy ought to know. Having settled this matter to her satisfaction, Mrs. Larry proceeded to act with characteristic promptness. She took her pen in hand-- * * * * * “Dear Jimmy: “Clearing out a drawer this morning, I came upon the program of the Monday Night Dance. Didn’t we have a wonderful time? If you are as good a lawyer as you are a dancer, you’ll be famous before long. “So sorry you did not have dinner with us before you left. You must never treat us that way again. “Can’t write any more, because I am going over to my butcher’s to take my second lesson in reducing the high cost of living. Claire is going with me. Of course, she’ll write and tell you all about our adventures in thrift. I suppose we’ll have some wild experiences. But when you really, truly love a man, you don’t mind what you go through for him. Not even if this means stalking that ogre, ‘High Prices,’ to its darkest lair.” * * * * * She sealed and stamped the envelope with an affectionate little pat. “It’s just as well not to take any chances on some catty Kansas City girl discovering that Jimmy’s heart has had a wound that she might heal. I’ve heard a lot of strange things about the way a man’s heart acts on the rebound.” Nevertheless, she was very careful not to allow Claire to see the address on the letter, which she mailed in the first box they passed. When Mrs. Larry, armed with market quotations, entered the Dahlgren market, with its glittering marble slabs, its white-coated cutters, and its generally up-to-the-minute air, she felt a sudden sinking in the region of her heart. “Jud,” the rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed cutter, who always took her order, came forward, book in hand. “What is it this morning?” “A roast of beef----” “Two ribs or three?” he suggested, already writing the order. “I think I’d like to see it.” “Certainly. Bill, let me have that prime rib, rolled. No, the other cut.” A helper produced a roast, beautifully rolled, all crimson flesh, flecked with rich, creamy-white fat. Jud tossed it on the scales, and in a flash had it off again. “Not quite eight pounds--two dollars and thirty-two cents. Can’t be beat for slicing down cold. Anything else?” he added. “We have an unusually fine pair of sweetbreads to-day. Some chops for lunch?” Mrs. Larry was doing mental arithmetic. Claire had been using her pencil. “Two-thirty-two--That’s thirty cents a pound.” “What cut is that?” Mrs. Larry asked, with a fine assumption of firmness and indicating the rolled roast, which Jud had tossed into the basket, as if the sale were made. “That?” echoed the wondering cutter. “That’s a Delmonico roast--fancy.” “Haven’t you--haven’t you a third or fourth rib roast, something cheaper than this?”