name."

"I fancy--from looking at Mr. Sorg--that that is quite true," remarked
Mr. Tutt. He paused and reaching down into a lower compartment of his
desk, lifted out a tumbler and his bottle of malt extract, which he
placed carefully at his elbow and leaned back again contemplatively.
"Look here, Tutt," he said. "I want to ask you something. Is there
anything the matter with you?"

Tutt regarded him with the air of a small boy caught peeking through a
knot hole.

"Why,--no!" he protested lamely. "That is--nothing in particular. I do
feel a bit restless--sort of vaguely dissatisfied."

Mr. Tutt nodded sympathetically.

"How old are you, Tutt?"

"Forty-eight."

"And you feel just at present as if life were 'flat, stale and
unprofitable?'"

"Why--yes; you might put it that way. The fact is every day seems just
like every other day. I don't even get any pleasure out of eating. The
very sight of a boiled egg beside my plate at breakfast gives me the
willies. I can't eat boiled eggs any more. They sicken me!"

"Exactly!" Mr. Tutt poured out a glass of the malt extract.