the Spalpeens shamefully, so that even their rapacious
demands were satisfied, and they trotted off contentedly.

There followed a process which reduced me to a
giggling heap but which Von Gerhard carried out
ceremoniously. It consisted of certain raps at my knees,
and shins, and elbows, and fingers, and certain commands
to--"look at my finger! Look at the wall! Look at my
finger! Look at the wall!"

"So!" said Von Gerhard at last, in a tone of
finality. I sank my battered frame into the nearest
chair. "This--this newspaper work--it must cease." He
dismissed it with a wave of the hand.

"Certainly," I said, with elaborate sarcasm. "How
should you advise me to earn my living in the future?
In the stories they paint dinner cards, don't
they? or bake angel cakes?"

"Are you then never serious?" asked Von Gerhard, in
disapproval.

"Never," said I. "An old, worn-out, worked-out
newspaper reporter, with a husband in the mad-house,
can't afford to be serious for a minute, because if she
were she'd go mad, too, with the hopelessness of it all."
And I buried my face in my hands.

The room was very still for a moment. Then the great