"And how many calls does Mrs. Wilkins owe you?" demanded the Idiot. "I don't know," returned the wife. "And I don't care. When I want to see Mrs. Wilkins I call on her whether she owes me a call or not, but with Polly Dawkins it's different. She began the book-keeping, and as long as she likes it I must try to live up to her ideas. If social intercourse develops into a business, business requirements must be observed." "It's a good idea in a way," said the Idiot, reflectively. "But if you make a business of society, why don't you carry it to a logical conclusion? Balance your books, if you mean business, every month, and send your debtors a statement of their account." "Well, I will if you wish me to," said Mrs. Idiot. "Suppose they don't pay?" "Dun 'em," said the Idiot. And then the matter dropped. On the fifth of the following month Mr. and Mrs. Idiot were seated comfortably in their library. The children had gone to bed, and they were enjoying the bliss of a quiet evening at home, when the door-bell rang, and in a moment or two the maid ushered in Mr. and Mrs. Richard Dawkins, preceded, of course, by their cards. The young householders were delighted, and Polly Dawkins was never more charming. She looked well, and she talked well, and there was not a symptom of any diminution of the old-time friendship perceptible--only she did appear to be tired and care-worn. The evening wore away pleasantly. The chat reverted to old times, and by degrees Mrs. Dawkins seemed to grow less tired. About ten o'clock the Idiot invited his neighbor to adjourn to the smoking-room, where they each lit a cigar and indulged in a companionable glass. "Idiot," said Dawkins, when his wife called out to him that it was time to go home, "your wife is a wonder. I've been trying for three months to make Polly come up here and she wouldn't. Keeps books, you know--now. Has to--so much to do. Thought you owed us a call, but received your bill Wednesday--looked it up--questioned servants--found you were right." "Bill," cried the Idiot. "What bill?" "Why, the one Mrs. Idiot sent--this," said Dawkins, taking a piece of paper out of his pocket. "Confoundedly good joke." The Idiot took up the piece of paper. It was type-written--on Tommy's machine--and read as follows: November 1 1898 MR. AND MRS. RICHARD DAWKINS _To Mr. and Mrs. Idiot Dr._ September 20 Evening call 1 Account overdue. Please remit. "Great Scott!" laughed the Idiot. "My dear," said the Idiot after the Dawkinses had gone, "that bill of yours was a great idea." "It wasn't my idea at all--it was yours," said Mrs. Idiot, laughing. "You said we ought to be business-like to the last and send out a statement on the first of the month. I sent it. And they paid up." "Richard," said Mrs. Dawkins, as they drove home, "did you get a receipt?" X AS TO SANTA CLAUS