complained, in her gentle, languid way, of her husband's unhappily
suspicious nature. She could never understand it. For her part she
suspected no one. She liked and trusted everybody, which was the
reason why she was so popular, and so often taken in.

Mr. McEachern looked bovine, as was his habit when he was endeavoring
to gain a point against opposition.

"They may be on the level," he said. "I'm not saying anything against
any one. But I've seen a lot of crooks in my time, and it's not the
ones with the low brows and the cauliflower ears that you want to
watch for. It's the innocent Willies who look as if all they could do
was to lead the cotillon and wear bangles on their ankles. I've had a
lot to do with them, and it's up to a man that don't want to be stung
not to go by what a fellow looks like."

"Really, Pat, dear, I sometimes think you ought to have been a
policeman. What _is_ the matter?"

"Matter?"

"You shouted."

"Shouted? Not me. Spark from my cigar fell on my hand."

"You know, you smoke too much, Pat," said his wife, seizing the
opening with the instinct which makes an Irishman at a fair hit every
head he sees.

"I'm all right, me dear. Faith, I c'u'd smoke wan hondred a day and no