dining-room was in process of being restored and the howl of the floor
polisher was resounding through the hall.

It may interest the reader to know that while my wife and I occasionally
lunched or dined with "the choice ones of the earth," we prudently
practiced "light housekeeping" between our splendid feasts. Like a
brown-bearded Santa Claus I often ran the gauntlet of the elevator boy
with pockets bulging bottles of milk, hunks of cheese, hot muffins, and
pats of butter, and frequently, when the weather was bad, or when some
one had neglected to invite us out, we supped in our room.

Once when I entered laden in this fashion I was sharply taken aback by
the presence of several belated callers, very grand ladies, and only the
most skilful manoeuvering enabled me to slide into the closet and out
of my overcoat without betraying my cargo. My predicament highly amused
Zulime, while at the same time she inwardly trembled for fear of a
smash. I mention this incident in order to reveal the reverse side of
our splendid social progress. We were in no danger of becoming "spoiled"
with feasting, so long as we kept to our Latin Quarter methods of
lunching.

We had many notable dinners that winter, but our long anticipated visit
to Mark Twain's house in Riverdale stands out above them all. We reached
the house about seven o'clock, by way of an ancient hack which met us at
the depot and carried us up the hill, into the yard of an old-fashioned
mansion sheltered by great trees.

Mark came running lightly down the broad stairs to meet us in the hall,
seemingly in excellent health, although his spirits were not at all as
boyish as his step. "I'm glad to see you," he said cordially, "but
you'll find the house a hospital. The girls have both been miserable and
Mrs. Clemens, I'm sorry to say, is still too ill to see you. I bring her
greetings to you and her apology."

Thereupon he related with invincible humor and vivid phraseology, the
elaborate scheme of deception to which they had been forced during
Jean's illness. Mrs. Clemens was very weak, so low that the slightest
excitement--so the doctor warned us--might prove fatal; hence we were
obliged to pretend that Jean was well but busy doing this or doing that,
in order that her mother might not suspect the truth of the situation.

"I was protected by the doctor's orders, which forbade me from spending
more than two minutes in Mrs. Clemens' room, but Clara, who was allowed
to n