Then it was the noble hearted DeLancey to the rescue. He don't exactly take them right into the fam'ly; but he sends Mr. and Mrs. Bob over to his big Long Island country place, assigns 'em quarters in the north wing, and advises 'em to be as happy as they can. Now to most folks that would look like landin' on Velveteen-st.,--free eats, no room rent, and a forty-acre park to roam around in, with the use of a couple of safe horses and a libr'y full of improvin' books, such as the Rollo series and the works of Dr. Van Dyke. Brother Bob don't squeal or whine. He starts in to make the best of it by riggin' himself out like an English Squire and makin' a stagger at the country gentleman act. He takes a real int'rest in keepin' up the grounds and managin' the help, which DeLancey had never been able to do himself. It's as dull as dishwater, though, for Mrs. Robert Cathaway, and as there ain't anyone else handy she takes it out on Bob. Accordin' to all accounts, they must have done the anvil chorus good and plenty. You can just see how it would be, with them two dumped down so far from Broadway and only now and then comp'ny to break the monotony. When people did come, too, they was DeLancey's kind. I can picture Bob tryin' to get chummy with a bunch of prison reformers or delegates to a Sunday school union. I don't wonder his disposition curdled up. If it hadn't been for Mrs. Bob, though, they'd been there yet. She got so used to rowin' with Bob that she kept it up even when Brother DeLancey and his friends came down. DeLancey stands for it until one morning at breakfast, when he was entertainin' an English Bishop he'd corraled at some conference. Him and the Bishop was exchangin' views on whether free soup and free salvation was a good workin' combination or not, when some little thing sets Mr. and Mrs. Bob to naggin' each other on the side. I forgot just what it was Bob shot over; but after standin' her jabs for quite some time without gettin' real personal he comes back with some stage whisper remark that cut in deep. Mrs. Bob was right in the act of helpin' herself to the jelly omelet, usin' a swell silver servin' shovel about half the size of a brick layer's trowel. She's so stirred up that she absentmindedly scoops up a double portion, and just as Bob springs his remark what does she do but up and let fly at him, right across the table. Maybe she'd have winged him too,--and served him right for saying what no gentleman should to a lady, even if she is his wife,--but, what with her not stoppin' to take good aim, and the maid's gettin' her tray against her elbow, she misses Bob by about three feet and plasters the English Bishop square between the eyes.