From the table at his side, the man picked up three pamphlets. One was entitled The Model Statute, the second was Local Problems, and the third was Reform and Regeneration. To each of the three, Mr. Mix's name was signed. He took them up, and scrutinized them closely. "Why, what's so remarkable about these?" "Well, that one on Local Problems isn't so bad, but you know, Mix, when you come out in print and tell us that sooner or later you're going to stop the manufacture and sale of playing-cards, and--" "What?" "And stop all public dancing, and--" Mr. Mix looked moonstruck. "Who ever said _that_?" "And hand us out sumptuary laws--regulate the length of women's skirts and--" Mr. Mix caught his breath sharply. "Where's _that_? Where is it? Show it to me! Show it to me!" Obligingly, the member showed him; and as Mr. Mix stared at the pages, one by one, the veins in his cheeks grew purple. Mirabelle had edited his manuscript,--thank Heaven she hadn't tampered with the Mix amendment of the blue-law ordinance, which Mr. Mix had so carefully phrased to checkmate Henry, without at the same time seeming to do more than provide conservative Sunday regulation,--but in the other articles Mirabelle had shovelled in a wealth of her own precious thoughts, clad in her own bleak style, and as soon as he had read two consecutive paragraphs, Mr. Mix knew that the worst wasn't yet to come--it had arrived. The other man was amusedly calm. "Well, you're not going to deny you wrote it, are you? Too bad, in a way, though. Oh, I don't blame you for getting it off your chest, if you really mean it--a man might as well come out in the open--but I'm afraid too many people'll think it just funny." Mr. Mix produced a smile which was a sickly attempt to register nonchalant poise. "What do you hear about it?" "Oh, what I said. Say Mix, do you honestly mean all that blood-and-thunder?" Mr. Mix smiled again, and hoped that his expression was taken to be non-committal. To save his life, he couldn't have helped looking towards the corner where Henry and Judge Barklay sat, and his fury and chagrin were multiplied when he saw that they were still affected by humour. He went out, with vast dignity--even the doorman had a twinkle in his eye--and made for Masonic Hall. Mirabelle was there, in the committee room, and at sight of him, she had a temporary fit of maidenly diffidence. He wanted to slap her; but he didn't even dare to use a tone of voice which was more than disapproving. "Those pamphlets--" he began, censoriously. "Oh, yes, Theodore, I took the liberty of making a few slight changes." "Slight changes! Sleight of _hand_ changes!" Mirabelle drew herself up. "Do you mean to say you criticise what I did? _I_ couldn't see the sense of being milk-and-watery, even if _you_ could. All I put in was what you've said to me a hundred times over. We've wasted too much time already. I thought we'd better show our true colours."