"Clelia," said I pleasantly, "has Raoul brought the mail?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"Where is it?"
"There was only a bill from the Grand Hotel for cartage."
"What!" said I in pretense of dismay, "no letter yet from Mr. Smith's wife? And seven of his children down with whooping-cough!"
"W-wife!" stammered Clelia, her blue eyes becoming enormous. "S-seven children!"
"Seven in Christiania," I explained sadly, "the other eleven at school near Bergen. Poor fellow. His suspense must be dreadful."
I'm no actor; I saw immediately in Clelia's face that I had overplayed my part as well as the total of Smith's progeny, for the color came swiftly back and she shot at me a glance anything but demure.
"The other eleven," I explained, "were by his first three wives."
Clelia, dusting furiously, looked around at me over her shoulder.