your wife disagrees with you, and Fate tosses you about like cork
crumbs in wine opened by an un-feed waiter. The City is a sprightly
youngster, and you are red paint upon its toy, and you get licked
off.

John Hopkins sat, after a compressed dinner, in his glove-fitting
straight-front flat. He sat upon a hornblende couch and gazed, with
satiated eyes, at Art Brought Home to the People in the shape of "The
Storm" tacked against the wall. Mrs. Hopkins discoursed droningly
of the dinner smells from the flat across the hall. The flea-bitten
terrier gave Hopkins a look of disgust, and showed a man-hating
tooth.

Here was neither poverty, love, nor war; but upon such barren stems
may be grafted those essentials of a complete life.

John Hopkins sought to inject a few raisins of conversation into
the tasteless dough of existence. "Putting a new elevator in at the
office," he said, discarding the nominative noun, "and the boss has
turned out his whiskers."

"You don't mean it!" commented Mrs. Hopkins.

"Mr. Whipples," continued John, "wore his new spring suit down
to-day. I liked it fine It's a gray with--" He stopped, suddenly
stricken by a need that made itself known to him. "I believe I'll
walk down to the corner and get a five-cent cigar," he concluded.

John Hopkins took his hat and picked his way down the musty halls and
stairs of the flat-house.