I think that Hawkins felt that way about practically everything his wife said upon this occasion. Let that suffice. CHAPTER V. In the country, social intercourse between Hawkins' family and my own is upon the most informal basis. If it pleases us to dine together coatless and cuffless, we do so; and no one suggests that a national upheaval is likely to result. But in town it is different. The bugaboo of strict propriety seems to take mysterious ascendancy. We still dine together, but it is done in the most proper evening dress. It seems to be the law--unwritten but unalterable--that Hawkins and I shall display upon our respective bosoms something like a square foot of starchy white linen. I hardly know why I mention this matter of evening clothes, unless it is that the memory of my brand-new dress suit, which passed to another sphere that night, still preys upon my mind. That night, above mentioned, my wife and I dined in the Hawkins' home. Hawkins seemed particularly jovial. He appeared to be chuckling with triumph, or some kindred emotion, and his air was even more expansive than usual. When I mentioned the terrible explosion of the powder works at Pompton--hardly a subject to excite mirth in the normal individual--Hawkins fairly guffawed. “But, Herbert,” cried his wife, somewhat horrified, “is there anything humorous in the dismemberment of three poor workmen?” “Oh, it isn't that--it isn't that, my dear,” smiled the inventor. “It merely struck me as funny--this old notion of explosives.” “What old notion?” I inquired. “Why, the fallacy of the present methods of manipulating nitro-glycerine.” “I presume you have a better scheme?” I advanced. “Mr. Griggs,” cried Hawkins' wife, in terror that was not all feigned, “don't suggest it!” “Now, my dear----” began Hawkins, stiffening at once. “Hush, Herbert, hush! You've made mischief enough with your inventions, but you have never, thank goodness, dabbled in explosives.” “If I wanted to tell you what I know about explosives, and what I could do----” declaimed Hawkins. “Don't tell us, Mr. Hawkins,” laughed my wife. “A sort of superstitious dread comes over me at the notion.” “Mrs. Griggs!” exclaimed Hawkins, eying my wife with a glare which in any other man would have earned him the best licking I could give him--but which, like many other things, had to be excused in Hawkins. “Herbert!” said his wife, authoritatively. “Be still. Actually, you're quite excited!” Hawkins lapsed into sulky silence, and the meal ended with just a hint of constraint. Mrs. Hawkins and my wife adjourned to the drawing-room, and Hawkins and I were left, theoretically, to smoke a post-prandial cigar. Hawkins, however, had other plans for my entertainment. “Are they up-stairs?” he muttered, as footsteps sounded above us. “They seem to be.” “Then you come with me,” whispered Hawkins, heading me toward the servants' staircase. “Where?” I inquired suspiciously.