smoke.'

The next moment Minnie and Sidney were treading the complicated
measure; and simultaneously Henry ceased to be a youngish twenty-one
and was even conscious of a fleeting doubt as to whether he was really
only thirty-five.

Boil the whole question of old age down, and what it amounts to is that
a man is young as long as he can dance without getting lumbago, and, if
he cannot dance, he is never young at all. This was the truth that
forced itself upon Henry Wallace Mills, as he sat watching his wife
moving over the floor in the arms of Sidney Mercer. Even he could see
that Minnie danced well. He thrilled at the sight of her gracefulness;
and for the first time since his marriage he became introspective. It
had never struck him before how much younger Minnie was than himself.
When she had signed the paper at the City Hall on the occasion of the
purchase of the marriage licence, she had given her age, he remembered
now, as twenty-six. It had made no impression on him at the time. Now,
however, he perceived clearly that between twenty-six and thirty-five
there was a gap of nine years; and a chill sensation came upon him of
being old and stodgy. How dull it must be for poor little Minnie to be
cooped up night after night with such an old fogy? Other men took their
wives out and gave them a good time, dancing half the night with them.
All he could do was to sit at home and read Minnie dull stuff from the
_Encyclopaedia_. What a life for the poor child! Suddenly, he felt
acutely jealous of the rubber-jointed Sidney Mercer, a man whom
hitherto he had always heartily despised.

The music stopped. They came back to the table, Minnie with a pink glow
on her face that made her younger than ever; Sidney, the insufferable