"Seems to me," remarked Mrs. Welwyn apologetically, as the door closed with a vicious snap, "that Mother got up on the wrong side of her bed this morning. You don’t mind, do you, Father dear?" "I? Not in the least," replied Mr. Welwyn with much cheerfulness. "I find your worthy mother, if anything, a tonic. You are a good soul, Martha. Sit down and have a cup of tea with me: it must be some time since you breakfasted. Take mine." He pushed his brimming cup towards his wife. "Oh, no, Father!" said Mrs. Welwyn, quite distressed. "I’ll get one for myself." She rose, and went to the sideboard. "On consideration," interposed her husband, as if struck by a sudden idea, "I think--yes, I think--I should prefer a tumbler. I was working late last night; and possibly--I rather feel--You know what the doctor said. A man of letters--thank you, dearest. You anticipate every wish!" The man of letters helped himself from the decanter and siphon which his prescient spouse had already laid beside the tray, and attacked the kidneys with renewed confidence. "Father," observed Mrs. Welwyn presently, nervously sipping her second-hand cup of tea, "there’s trouble among the lodgers again." Mr. Welwyn gave her a reproving little glance. "I think, dearest," he said gently, "that we agreed to call them paying guests." "That," retorted Mrs. Welwyn with sudden indignation, "is just what they’re not. Pumpherston has paid nothing for three weeks, and now he is threatening to murder poor old Mehta Ram." "In my house?" exclaimed Mr. Welwyn grandly. "Impossible! This must stop. Where is Percy?" "Percy," replied matter-of-fact Mrs. Welwyn, "is where you would expect him to be at this hour, you dear old silly--earning his living at Cratchett and Raikes’s!" "Talking of Cratchett and Raikes," said Mr. Welwyn, characteristically forgetting all about Mr. Pumpherston, "is there a letter this morning from Gandy and Cox?" "No," said Mrs. Welwyn quickly. "Why?" "Nothing, nothing," said Mr. Welwyn, rising to look for his cigarette-case. "They have been rather pressing over their little account lately. In fact, they have had the presumption to threaten me with distraint." "How much was the bill, dear?" enquired Mrs. Welwyn, removing the breakfast-tray to the sideboard. "A mere trifle," was the airy reply. "Seven pounds odd, I fancy, for a case of champagne which I had a year or two ago, when my heart was a little--you recollect? The doctor--" "Yes, lovey," said Mrs. Welwyn. "It was an anxious time for all of us. But"--her brow puckered--"did n’t you pay cash for it? I seem to remember giving you the money."