"And how about the egg-nog?" asked the Bibliomaniac, slyly. "I judge there were about six crates of eggs in it," said the Idiot. "I never had the nerve to estimate the nog-end of it." "What did the doctor say when you told him all that?" asked Mrs. Pedagog. The Idiot chuckled. "What did he say?" he cried. "Why, I should think you could guess. He blamed it all on the Welsh rarebits, but he thought he could get me into shape again in time for the next New Year. I've never been the same man since." "Well, the way I look at it," said Mrs. Pedagog, "is that it is a great pity that women must be deprived of a function that gives them pleasure because the men make pigs of themselves." "But you don't understand, Mrs. Pedagog," the Idiot persisted. "I grant you that the man who eats all that makes a pig of himself, but he has no choice. He can't help himself. When a charming hostess insists, he'd be a greater pig if he refused to partake of her hospitality. The custom involved an inevitable sacrifice of man's digestion upon the altar of woman. That's all there was about it. If it could have been arranged so that a man could take a hamper about with him and stow all the cakes and salads and other good things away in that, and eat them later as he happened to need or want them, instead of in his own inner self, the good old custom might have been preserved, but that is impossible in these conventional days." "You needn't have eaten it all," put in Mrs. Idiot. "You could have pretended to eat it and put it down somewhere." [Illustration: "'I FOUND EIGHT SANDWICHES AND A PINT OF SALTED ALMONDS'"] [Illustration: "'THEY WERE FOUND SOME DAYS LATER WHEN THE ROOM WAS PUT IN ORDER'"] "I know that, my dear. I didn't even on that occasion eat it all--I only ate what I told you. I found eight sandwiches and a pint of salted almonds in my coat-tail pocket the next morning, which I managed surreptitiously to hide away while my hostesses were getting me something else, and in one place, while nobody was watching me, I hid a half-dozen pickled oysters under a sofa, where I suppose they were found some days later when the room was put in order." As the Idiot spoke the clock struck twelve, and the guests all rose up. "Here's to the New Year!" said Mr. Pedagog. "Not yet," interposed the Idiot. "That's only a signal for the Welsh rarebits to be brought in. I've sworn them off for the New Year, but I haven't for the old. The clock is a half-hour fast." "No, my dear," said Mrs. Idiot. "It was, but I put it back. It's exactly right now." "Then," said the Idiot, "I join you in the toast, Mr. Pedagog. Here's to the New Year: may it bring joy to everybody. Meanwhile may it bring also the Welsh rarebits." "I thought you'd sworn off," suggested Mr. Pedagog.