Mrs. Arbuthnot was perusing that journal which for the modest sum of one halfpenny purveys the glamour of history with only five per cent. of its responsibilities. She merely turned over a page. Her brother, having heaped enough kedgeree upon his plate to make a meal for the average person, peppered and salted it on a scale equally liberal and then suggested coffee. "Tea is better for the digestion," said Mrs. Arbuthnot, with her natural air of simple authority. "I know," said Jodey, "that is why I prefer the other stuff." "Men are so reasonable!" "Do you mind 'andin' the sugar?" "Sugar will make you a welter and ruin your appearance." A cardinal axiom of my friend Mrs. Josiah P. Perkins, née Ogbourne, late of Brownville, Mass., is "Horse-sense always tells." Among the daughters of men I know none whose endowment of this felicitous quality can equal that of the amiable participator in my expenditure. It told in this case. "Better give me tea." "Without sugar?" said Mrs. Arbuthnot, with great charm of manner. "A small lump," said Jodey as a concession to his force of character. The young fellow stirred his tea with so much diligence that the small lump really seemed like a large one. And then, with a gravity that was somewhat sinister, he fixed his gaze on my coat and leathers. "By a local artist of the name of Jobson," said I, humbly. "The second shop on the right as you enter Middleham High Street." "They speak for themselves." "My father went there," said I. "My grandfather also. In my grandfather's day I believe the name of the firm was Wiseman and Grundy." "It's not fair to 'ounds. If I was Brasset I should take 'em 'ome." "If you were Brasset," I countered, "that would hardly be necessary. They would find their way home by themselves." "Mops is to blame. She has been brought up properly." "It comes to this, my friend. We can't both wear the breeches. Hers cost a pretty penny from those thieves in Regent Street." "Maddox Street," said a bland voice from the recesses of the _Daily Courier_. "Those bandits in Maddox Street," said I, with pathos. "But for all I know it might be those sharks in the Mile End Road. I am a babe in these things." "No, my dear Odo," said the young fellow, making his point somewhat elaborately, "in those things you are a perisher. An absolute perisher. I'm ashamed to be seen 'untin' the same fox with you. I should be ashamed to be found dead in the same ditch. I hate people who are not serious about clothes. It's so shallow." My relation by marriage produced an extremely vivid yellow silk handkerchief, and pensively flicked a speck of invisible dust off an immaculate buckskin. "My God, those tops!" "By a local draughtsman," said I, "of the name of Bussey. He is careful in the measurements and takes a drawing of the foot." "'Orrible. You look like a Cossack at the Hippodrome."