o hope you haven't
got cold, sleeping with your windows wide open, as you say you do. Fresh
air is a good thing, in moderation, but one should be careful. Don't you
think so, Mr. Carson?"

Mr. Carson was a thin little man, a bachelor, who occupied the smallest
room on the third story. He was a clerk in a department store, and his
board was generally in arrears. Therefore, when Mrs. Hepton expressed an
opinion he made it a point to agree with her. In this instance, however,
he merely grunted.

"I say fresh air in one's sleeping room is a good thing in moderation.
Don't you think so, Mr. Carson?" repeated the landlady.

Mr. Carson rolled up his napkin and inserted it in the ring. His board,
as it happened, was paid in full to date. Also, although he had not yet
declared his intention, he intended changing lodgings at the end of the
week.

"Humph!" he sniffed, with sarcasm, "it may be. I couldn't get none in
_my_ room if I wanted it, so I can't say sure. Morning."

He departed hurriedly. Mrs. Hepton looked disconcerted. Mrs. Van Winkle
Ruggles smiled meaningly across the table at Miss Sherborne, who smiled
back.

Mr. Ludlow, the bookseller, quietly observed that he hoped Mr. Pearson
had not gotten cold. Colds were prevalent at this time of the year.
"'These are the days when the Genius of the weather sits in mournful
meditation on the threshold,' as Mr. Dickens tells us," he added. "I
presume he sits on the sills of open windows, also."

The wife of the Mr. Dickens there present pricked up her ears.

"When did you write that, 'C.' dear?" she asked, turning to her husband.
"I remember it perfectly, of course, but I have forgotten, for the
moment, in which of your writings it appears."

The illustrious one's mouth being occupied with a section of scorching
hot waffle, he was spared the necessity of confession.

"Pardon me," said Mr. Ludlow. "I was not quoting our Mr. Dickens this
time, but his famous namesake."

The great "C." drowned the waffle with a swallow of water.

"Maria," he snapped, "don't be so foolish. Ludlow quotes
from--er--'Bleak House.' I have written some things--er--similar, but
not that. Why don't you pass the syrup?"

The bookseller, who was under the impression that he had quoted from the
"Christmas Carol," merely smiled and remained silent.

"My father, the Senator," began Mrs. Van Winkle Ruggles, "was troubled
with colds during his political career. I remember his saying that the
Senat