"Really, dear," says Mrs. Jack Warner, the next day, "how does the
professor get along with that foolish, ignorant little wife of his?"

"Get along with her? Why, he couldn't get along without her! She sorts
his papers, makes his notes and quotations, answers his letters, copies
his manuscripts, swears by all he thinks and says and does, through
thick and thin, by day and night. It's wonderful, by Jove! I felt
spiteful enough to remind her that she had once vowed that nothing on
earth should ever induce her to marry a writer."

"What did she say?"

"She turned round in her old saucy manner, and answered, 'Jack Warner,
you are as dark as ever. I did not marry the writer, I married _the
man_.' Then I said, 'I suppose all this study and reading and writing is
your offering toward the advancement of science and social
regeneration?'"

"What then?"

"She laughed in a very provoking way, and said, 'Dark again, Jack; _it
is a labor of love_.'"

"Well I never!"

"Nor I either."