"You--what?" Peter was dumfounded.

"Yes"--Mrs. Knight seemed oblivious of his wrath--"we're going to
make a change."

Mrs. Knight was a large woman well advanced beyond that indefinite
turning-point of middle age; in her unattractive face was none of
the easy good nature so unmistakably stamped upon her husband's.
Peter J. was inherently optimistic; his head was forever hidden in
a roseate aura of hopefulness and expectation. Under easy living
he had grayed and fattened; his eyes were small and colorless, his
cheeks full and veined with tiny sprays Of purple, his hands soft
and limber. What had once been a measure of good looks was hidden
now behind a flabby, indefinite mediocrity which an unusual
carefulness in dress could not disguise. He was big-hearted in
little things; in big things he was small. He told an excellent
story, but never imagined one, and his laugh was hearty though
insincere. Men who knew him well laughed with him, but did not
indorse his notes.

His wife was of a totally different stamp, showing evidence of
unusual force. Her thin lips, her clean-cut nose betokened
purpose; a pair of alert, unpleasant eyes spoke of a mental
activity that was entirely lacking in her mate, and she was
generally recognized as the source of what little prominence he
had attained.

"Yes, we're going to make a change," she repeated. "I'm glad, too,
for I'm tired of housework."