MR. WELLAWAY’S host and his host’s wife descended the stairs together just as the maid issued from the dining-room to announce dinner, and once seated, the conversation turned to the storm, to the utter disruption of the telephone service, and to the game of golf the two men had been unable to finish. In the midst of the conversation Mr. Wellaway studied the monogram on the handles of his fork and spoon. It was one of those triumphs of monogrammery that are so beautiful as to be absolutely illegible. The name on the butter-knife handle was legible, however. It was “Sarah.”
The soup had been consumed, and the roast carved when Mr. Wellaway’s host looked at his wife and raised his eyebrows. She smiled in acknowledgment of the signal.
“Don’t you think some names are supremely odd?” she asked Mr. Wellaway. “My husband was telling me of one that came under his notice to-day. What was it, dear?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t have noticed it but for the circumstances,” said Mr. Wellaway’s host; “but it was a rather ridiculous name for a human being. Can you imagine any one carrying around the name of Wellaway?”
Mr. Wellaway gasped.
“Imagine being a Wellaway!” said Sarah. “Isn’t it an inhospitable name? It seems to suggest ‘Good-by; I’m glad you’re gone.’ Doesn’t it?”
“I can see the man with my mind’s eye,” said Mr. Wellaway’s host. “A tall, thin fellow, with sandy sideburns. Probably a floor-walker in some shop, with a perpetual smile.”
“But tell him the rest,” said Sarah, chuckling.
“Oh, the rest—that’s too funny!” said Mr. Wellaway’s host. “I had a letter this morning from this Mrs. Wellaway—”
Mr. Wellaway turned very red and moved uneasily in his chair.