We’ve been married over two years and we’re still—Oh, what’s the use! But we _do_ get on like a house on fire. I guess in this vast metropolis there’s not a woman got anything on me when it comes to happiness. It certainly _is_ wonderful how you bloom out and the mean part of you fades away when someone thinks you’re the perfect article, handsewn, silk-lined, made in America. And so having taken this little run round the lot, I’ll come back to Babbitts with his head in the morning paper saying "Hello!" It was a clear, crisp morning in January—sixteenth of the month—and we were at breakfast. Himself had just got in from Cleveland, where he’d been sent to write up the Cheney graft prosecution. It took some minutes to say "How d’ye do"—he’d been away two whole days—and after we’d concluded the ceremonies I lit into the kitchen to get his breakfast while he sat down at his end of the table and dived into the papers. His egg was before him and I was setting the coffeepot down at my end when he gave that "Hello," loud and startled, with the accent on the "lo." "What’s up now?" said I, looking over the layout before me to see if I’d forgotten anything. "Hollings Harland’s committed suicide," came out of the paper. "Lord, has he!" said I. "Isn’t that awful?" I took up the cream pitcher. "Well, what do you make of that—the cream’s frozen." "Last night at half-past six. Threw himself out of his office window on the eighteenth story." "Eighteenth story!—that’s some fall. I’ve got to take this cream out with a spoon." I spooned up some, all white spikes and edges, wondering if it would chill his coffee which he likes piping hot. "Darling, do you mind waiting a little while I warm up the cream?" "Darn the cream! What rotten luck that I was away. I suppose they put Eddie Saunders on it, sounds like his flat-footed style. Listen to this: 'The body struck the pavement with a violent impact.’ That’s the way he describes the fall of a man from the top of a skyscraper. Gee, why wasn’t I here?" "But, dearie," I said, passing him his cup, "Saunders would have done it if you _had_ been here. You don’t do suicides." "I do this one. Hollings Harland, one of the big corporation lawyers of New York." "Oh," I said, "he’s an important person." "Rather. A top liner in his profession." "Why did he commit suicide?" "Caught in the Copper Pool, they think here." With the cup at his lips he went on reading over its edge. "Does it taste all right?" I asked and he grunted something that would have been "A 1" if it hadn’t dropped into the coffee and been drowned. My mind at rest about him I could give it to the morning sensation. "What’s the Copper Pool?" I asked. "A badly named weapon to jack up prices and gouge the public, young woman. Just like a corner in hats. Suppose you could buy up all the spring hats, you could pretty near name your own figure on them, couldn’t you?" "They do that now without a corner," I said sadly.