of the house was known to be there. "It's Theodore," said his wife,
jumping up and going out to meet him. "I'm so glad that you have been
here a little before him, because now I feel that I know you. When he's
here, I shan't get in a word." Then she went down to her husband, and
Harry was left to speculate how so very charming a woman could ever have
been brought to love a man who cleaned his boots with his
pocket-handkerchief.

There were soon steps again upon the stairs, and Burton returned,
bringing with him another man, whom he introduced to Harry as Mr. Jones.
"I didn't know my brother was coming," said Mrs. Burton, "but it will be
very pleasant, as of course I shall want you to know him." Harry became
a little perplexed. How far might these family ramifications be supposed
to go? Would he be welcomed, as one of the household, to the hearth of
Mrs. Jones; and if of Mrs. Jones, then of Mrs. Jones's brother? His
mental inquiries, however, in this direction, were soon ended by his
finding that Mr. Jones who a bachelor.

Jones, it appeared, was the editor, or sub-editor, or co-editor, of some
influential daily newspaper. "He is a night bird, Harry--" said Mrs.
Burton. She had fallen into the way of calling him Harry at once, but he
could not on that occasion bring himself to call her Cecilia. He might
have done so had not her husband been present, but he was ashamed to do
it before him. "He is a night bird, Harry," said she, speaking of her
brother, "and flies away at nine o'clock that he may go and hoot like an
owl in some dark city haunt that he has. Then, when he is himself asleep
at breakfast time, his hootings are being heard round the town."

Harry rather liked the idea of knowing an editor. Editors were, he
thought, influential people, who had the world very much under their