CHAPTER V.


In the country, social intercourse between Hawkins' family and my own
is upon the most informal basis. If it pleases us to dine together
coatless and cuffless, we do so; and no one suggests that a national
upheaval is likely to result.

But in town it is different. The bugaboo of strict propriety seems to
take mysterious ascendancy. We still dine together, but it is done in
the most proper evening dress. It seems to be the law--unwritten but
unalterable--that Hawkins and I shall display upon our respective
bosoms something like a square foot of starchy white linen.

I hardly know why I mention this matter of evening clothes, unless it
is that the memory of my brand-new dress suit, which passed to another
sphere that night, still preys upon my mind.

That night, above mentioned, my wife and I dined in the Hawkins' home.

Hawkins seemed particularly jovial. He appeared to be chuckling with
triumph, or some kindred emotion, and his air was even more expansive
than usual.

When I mentioned the terrible explosion of the powder works at
Pompton--hardly a subject to excite mirth in the normal
individual--Hawkins fairly guffawed.

"But, Herbert," cried his wife, somewhat horrified, "is there anything