Bingley Crocker, late of New York in the United States of
America, as he bent over his morning paper. Mrs. Bingley Crocker,
busy across the table reading her mail, the rays did not touch.
Had they done so, she would have rung for Bayliss, the butler, to
come and lower the shade, for she endured liberties neither from
Man nor from Nature.

Mr. Crocker was about fifty years of age, clean-shaven and of a
comfortable stoutness. He was frowning as he read. His smooth,
good-humoured face wore an expression which might have been
disgust, perplexity, or a blend of both. His wife, on the other
hand, was looking happy. She extracted the substance from her
correspondence with swift glances of her compelling eyes, just as
she would have extracted guilty secrets from Bingley, if he had
had any. This was a woman who, like her sister Nesta, had been
able all her life to accomplish more with a glance than other
women with recrimination and threat. It had been a popular belief
among his friends that her late husband, the well-known Pittsburg
millionaire G. G. van Brunt, had been in the habit of
automatically confessing all if he merely caught the eye of her
photograph on his dressing table.

From the growing pile of opened envelopes Mrs. Crocker looked up,
a smile softening the firm line of her lips.

"A card from Lady Corstorphine, Bingley, for her at-home on the
twenty-ninth."

Mr. Crocker, still absorbed, snorted absently.