"Seems to me," remarked Mrs. Welwyn apologetically, as the door closed with a vicious snap, "that Mother got up on the wrong side of her bed this morning. You don't mind, do you, Father dear?"
"I? Not in the least," replied Mr. Welwyn with much cheerfulness. "I find your worthy mother, if anything, a tonic. You are a good soul, Martha. Sit down and have a cup of tea with me: it must be some time since you breakfasted. Take mine."
He pushed his brimming cup towards his wife.
"Oh, no, Father!" said Mrs. Welwyn, quite distressed. "I'll get one for myself."
She rose, and went to the sideboard.
"On consideration," interposed her husband, as if struck by a sudden idea, "I think--yes, I think--I should prefer a tumbler. I was working late last night; and possibly--I rather feel--You know what the doctor said. A man of letters--thank you, dearest. You anticipate every wish!"
The man of letters helped himself from the decanter and siphon which his prescient spouse had already laid beside the tray, and attacked the kidneys with renewed confidence.
"Father," observed Mrs. Welwyn presently, nervously sipping her second-hand cup of tea, "there's trouble among the lodgers again."
Mr. Welwyn gave her a reproving little glance.
"I think, dearest," he said gently, "that we agreed to call them paying guests."