because of an unintentional error this great opportunity to rid the world, and incidentally myself, of much that is vexatious was wholly lost is a matter of sincere grief to myself. It happened in this way: Hardly had I returned to my delightful apartment at the hotel, when a messenger arrived bearing a superbly engraved command from Jupiter to dine with himself and Juno _en famille_. It was a kind, courteous, and friendly note, utterly devoid of formality, and we were to spend the evening at cards. Jupiter had indicated in the afternoon that he would like to learn bridge, and, inasmuch as I never travel anywhere without a text-book upon that fascinating subject, I had volunteered to teach him. The dinner was given largely to enable me to do this, and, moreover, Jupiter was quite anxious to have me meet his family, and promised me that before the evening was over I should hear some music from the lyre of Apollo, meet all the muses, and enjoy a chafing-dish snack prepared by the fair hand of Juno herself. "I'll have Polyphemus up to give us a few coon songs if you like them," he added, "and altogether I can promise you a delightful evening. We drop all our state at these affairs, and I know you'll enjoy yourself." "I shall feel a trifle embarrassed in the presence of so many gods and goddesses, I am afraid," I put in. "I'll fix you out as to that," Jupiter replied. "I'll change you for the time being into a god yourself, if you wish." I laughed at the idea. "A high old god I'd make," said I. "You'd pass," he observed, quietly. "I'll call you Pencillius, god of Chirography--or would you rather come as Nonsensius, the newly discovered deity of Jocosity?" "I think I'd rather be Zero, god of Nit," said I, and it was so ordained.