Nellie’s new fox-terrier had come in from the garden through the French window, and eaten part of a muffin, and Denry had eaten a muffin and a half, before Nellie, straightening herself proudly and putting her shoulders back (a gesture of hers), thought fit to murmur: "Well, anything thrilling happened to-day?" Denry opened the green sheet and read: "Sudden death of Alderman Bloor in London. What price that?" "Oh!" exclaimed Nellie. "How shocked father will be! They were always rather friendly. By the way, I had a letter from mother this morning. It appears as if Toronto was a sort of paradise. But you can see the old thing prefers Bursley. Father ’s had a boil on his neck, just at the edge of his collar. He says it’s because he ’s too well. What did Mr. Bloor die of?" "He was in the fashion," said Denry. "How?" "Appendicitis, of course. Operation—domino! All over in three days." "Poor man!" Nellie murmured, trying to feel sad for a change, and not succeeding. "And he was to have been mayor in November, was n’t he? How disappointing for him!" "I expect he ’s got something else to think about," said Denry. After a pause Nellie asked suddenly: "Who’ll be mayor—now?" "Well," said Denry, "his Worship, Councillor Barlow, J. P., will be extremely cross if he is n’t." "How horrid!" said Nellie frankly. "And he ’s got nobody at all to be mayoress." "Mrs. Prettyman would be mayoress," said Denry. "When there’s no wife or daughter, it’s always a sister if there is one." "But can you imagine Mrs. Prettyman as mayoress? Why, they say she scrubs her own doorstep—after dark. They ought to make you mayor!" "Do you fancy yourself as mayoress?" he inquired. "I should be better than Mrs. Prettyman anyhow!" "I believe you ’d make an A1 mayoress," said Denry. "I should be frightfully nervous," she confidentially admitted. "I doubt it," said he. The fact was that since her return to Bursley from the honeymoon Nellie was an altered woman. She had acquired, as it were in a day, to an astonishing extent, what in the Five Towns is called "a nerve." "I should like to try it," said she. "One day you ’ll have to try it, whether you want to or not." "When will that be?" "Don’t know. Might be next year but one. Old Barlow ’s pretty certain to be chosen for next November. It’s looked on as his turn next. I know there’s been a good bit of talk about me for the year after Barlow. Of course, Bloor’s death will advance everything by a year. But even if I come next after Barlow it ’ll be too late." "Too late? Too late for what?"