Mr. Prohack's breakfast consisted of bacon, dry toast, coffee,
marmalade, _The Times_ and _The Daily Picture_. The latter was full of
brides and bridegrooms, football, enigmatic murder trials, young women
in their fluffy underclothes, medicines, pugilists, cinema stars, the
biggest pumpkin of the season, uplift, and inspired prophecy concerning
horses and company shares; together with a few brief unillustrated notes
about civil war in Ireland, famine in Central Europe, and the collapse
of realms.


II


"Ah! So I've caught you!" said his wife, coming brightly into the room.
She was a buxom woman of forty-three. Her black hair was elaborately
done for the day, but she wore a roomy peignoir instead of a frock; it
was Chinese, in the Imperial yellow, inconceivably embroidered with
flora, fauna, and grotesques. She always thus visited her husband at
breakfast, picking bits off his plate like a bird, and proving to him
that her chief preoccupation was ever his well-being and the
satisfaction of his capricious tastes.

"Many years ago," said Mr. Prohack.

"You make a fuss about buying _The Daily Picture_ for me. You say it
humiliates you to see it in the house, and I don't know what. But I
catch you reading it yourself, and before you've opened _The Times_!
Dear, dear! That bacon's a cinder and I daren't say anything to her."