people were all ready to quote "Mrs. Evan Roberts" as authority on
almost any point of taste.

On the evening in question Mr. Roberts, in dressing-gown and slippers,
had drawn his lounging-chair to the drop-light, preparatory to a
half-hour of reading aloud. But it transpired that there was something
preparatory to that, or at least that must take the precedence. Certain
business telegrams followed him home, which required the writing of two
or three business letters.

"It will not take me long," he explained to his wife, "and they are not
complicated affairs, so I give you leave to talk right on while I
dispatch them." She laughed at this hint about her fondness for talk,
but presently made use of the privilege.

"Evan, what sort of a young man do you consider Mr. Ried?"

"Ried? Who? Oh, my clerk? The very best sort; a most estimable
fellow,--one of a thousand. By the way, did you tell him how you became
interested in that sister of his?"

"Not yet; I want to get better acquainted. But, Evan, do you know where
he boards?"

Hardly; on Third Avenue somewhere, I believe; or possibly Second. The
store register would show. Do you want his address!"

"Oh, I know _where_ it is; but I mean what sort of a place is it?"

Mr. Roberts slightly elevated his shapely shoulders.