A certain remarkable authority in discussing social matters which I never thought I possessed. In fact, which I never did possess until I got the dress suit. The Skinners devoted the days between Wednesday and Saturday to loafing or sight-seeing, principally the former. They drove over to Minneapolis again and took in the wonderful flour mills, for anything that pertained to machinery fascinated Skinner. Then they went out to the Lake and had a trout dinner and all the rest of it. But after a time, this unaccountably useless routine got on Honey's nerves. "Dearie," she protested, "this is our honeymoon, to be sure, but don't you think you ought to get after business?" "Don't worry. Business will get after _us_ pretty soon." "But time is flying." "Time is doing just what I want it to do. It takes time for plans to develop. It takes time for seed to grow. I started business getting after us Sunday morning at the First Presbyterian Church in Meadeville. I prepared some of the seed on the way out here. I began sowing the evening we arrived. I fanned the flame with a big puff,"--he held up the paper with the interview in it. "Jingo, that's funny. I did n't mean it literally." "Your metaphors are fearfully mixed, Dearie." "Does n't matter. They're graphic." "But they're not clear to me." "They are to me, which is enough," said Skinner, with a suggestion of finality. Honey pouted reproachfully at the snub, and Skinner's heart instantly smote him. "Don't worry, Honey. It's all right." He paused. "Now, I'm going to make a prophecy." He pointed impressively at her with his forefinger. "And you mark my words! Things will begin to happen right after the Wilkinson dinner." "That's Sunday morning." "Things have happened on Sunday," observed Skinner quietly. "When do you expect to start for home?" "I 'm not sure, but I 'm counting strongly on Tuesday morning." While the Skinners were talking, something pertaining to the same business was developing in another part of the city. "Do I get another dress?" Mrs. Jackson asked as the famous curmudgeon entered the dining-room Thursday evening. "You do," he growled. "I'll be hanged if I understand it." "It's too bad," Mrs. Jackson began. The curmudgeon held up his finger. "Stop right where you are. I know what you're going to say." He growled out the accustomed formula: "'You'd give me dresses all day long and diamonds and a magnificent house, but you don't give me what is dearest in the world. I want to go with the people I 'm fit to go with!' In the future, just to save time, cross your fingers and I'll know you mean formula number two." "But Mr. Skinner," Mrs. Jackson persisted. The curmudgeon cut her short. "What's _Skinner_ got to do with it?"