Ketcham is quite a gay fellow, and a member of many clubs, so that he can seldom be found home of an evening.
I once remonstrated with him, as a true friend should.
"See here," I said, seriously, "you are out every night until the 'wee sma' hours.' Isn't midnight late enough for you?"
"Well," he replied, "I find when I show up at midnight my wife can talk to me, but when I get home at three, words fail her."
Say, my wife came home from shopping the other day filled with righteous indignation, and, of course, while men are not supposed to have any curiosity, you know, my peace of mind was somewhat disturbed.
I began to have vague fears that perhaps some miserable detective in one of the department stores might have insulted her—perhaps accused her of having too warm an affection for the lace counter.
At length, however, seeing that I would not ask the question she was burning to hear, she burst out with:
"I wish the shopkeepers would be more careful how they put mirrors in conspicuous places."
"What's the matter? Been trying to dodge your own reflection?" I asked, for do you know it was the first time I had ever heard a woman complain of too much looking-glass.