"I can't imagine," said his wife, "we old couples are the only normal ones."
"Some more coffee, please, mother," he said.
"But your nerves," she protested.
"It's my vacation," he insisted.
Mrs. Temple stared at him and shook her head: "I wonder what mischief you'll be up to to-day? You've already been smoking, gambling, drinking—have you been swearing, yet?"
"Not yet," the old clergyman smiled, "I've been saving that up for a good occasion. Perhaps it will rise before the day's over."
And his wife choked on her tea at the wonderful train-change that had come over the best man in Ypsilanti.
By this time Fosdick had reached the stateroom from which he had been banished again at the Nevada state-line. He knocked cautiously. From within came an anxious voice: "Who's there?"
"Whom did you expect?"
Mrs. Fosdick popped her head out like a Jill in the box. "Oh, it's you, Arthur. Kiss me good morning."