"Thomas!" cried his wife, aghast.

"Beg pardon, Force," muttered Mr. Bingle, very much ashamed of
himself. "I didn't mean to be profane. I guess I'm a little nervous
myself."

"Can't I look serious without putting the bank on its last legs?"
demanded Mr. Force, glaring.

"Certainly," Mr. Bingle made haste to assure him. "Look as serious as
you please, Force. I know it can't hurt the bank. Don't go, Mary. Mr.
Force and I will slip up to my study. We are less likely to be
interrupted there."

"I trust Mrs. Force is well," said the lady of Seawood, and there was
a note of anxiety in her voice. There HAD been a queer taste to the
lobster a la Newburg. She remembered mentioning it to Mr. Bingle after
the company had gone.

Mr. Force was guilty of an uneasy start. What was the woman driving
at? What put it into her head to mention his wife? Why SHOULDN'T his
wife be well?

"Quite well, thank you," he said at the end of a deep exhalation.
Indeed he was quite without breath when he came to the "thank you." It
would have been better if he hadn't tried to be so courteous. "Quite
well," would have been sufficient. He realised, as he wheezily filled
his lungs, that the "thank you" was entirely superfluous. In any
event, it wasn't so important that he should have gone to the pains of