He brought his papers with him. It would have been her idea of heightened cosiness, at this breakfast, which they had once a week alone together, not to have the newspapers, but she saw that he felt differently, and after a number of years of married life a woman learns to let her husband have his own way in some unimportant matters. It was so much his nature to have some sort of reading always in hand, that he was certainly more himself, and perhaps more companionable with his papers than without them. She merely said, “Let me take the _Sunrise_,” when she had poured out his coffee, and he had helped her to cantaloupe and steak, and spread his _Advertiser_ beside his plate. He had the _Sunrise_ in his lap. “No, you may have the _Advertiser_” he said, handing it over the table to her. “I was down first, and I got both the papers. I'm not really obliged to make any division, but I've seen the _Advertiser_, and I'm willing to behave unselfishly. If you're very impatient for the police report in the _Sunrise_ I'll read it aloud for you. I think that will be a very good test of its quality, don't you?” He opened the little sheet, and smiled teasingly at his wife, who said, “Yes, read it aloud; I'm not at all ashamed of it.” She put the _Advertiser_ in her lap, and leaned defiantly forward, while she stirred her coffee, and Sewell unfolded the little sheet, and glanced up and down its columns. “Go on! If you can't find it, I can.” “Never mind! Here it is,” said Sewell, and he began to read-- “'The mill opened yesterday morning with a smaller number of grists than usual, but they made up in quality what they lacked in quantity.' “Our friend's metaphor seems to have weakened under him a little,” commented Sewell, and then he pursued-- “'A reasonable supply of drunks were despatched--' “Come, now, Lucy! You'll admit that this is horrible?” he broke off. “No,” said his wife, “I will admit nothing of the kind. It's flippant, I'll allow. Go on!” “I can't,” said Sewell; but he obeyed. “'A reasonable supply of drunks were despatched, and an habitual drunk, in the person of a burly dame from Tipperary, who pleaded not guilty and then urged the “poor childer” in extenuation, was sent down the harbour for three months; Uncle Cook had been put in charge of a couple of young frailties whose hind name was woman--' “How do you like that, my dear?” asked Sewell exultantly. Mrs. Sewell looked grave, and then burst into a shocked laugh. “You must stop that paper, David! I can't have it about for the children to get hold of. But it _is_ funny, isn't it? That will do--”