red uneasily about the room. "For heaven's
sake, girl, sit down and read--or, something!"

"I don't wonder your nerves are bad this morning," she sweetly
responded; "the only wonder is that you can keep up such a wearing pace
and do your work so well."

"This isn't such a roast," said Calcraft irrelevantly. He had heard
these same remarks every morning for more than ten years. "Last night,"
he proceeded, "the new tenor--"

"Oh! Cal, please don't read your criticism aloud. I saw it hours ago,"
she implored,--her slightly protuberant, blue eyes were fixed steadily
upon him.

"Why, what time is it?"

"Long past twelve."

"Phew! And I promised to be at the office at midday! Where's my coat, my
overshoes! Magda! Magda! Hang that girl, she's always gadding with the
elevator boy when I need her." Calcraft bustled about the room, rushed
to his bedchamber, to the hall, and reappeared dressed for his trip
down-town.

"Cal, I forgot to say that Hinweg called this morning and left his card.
Foreigners are so polite in these matters. He left cards for both of
us."

"He did, did he?" answered Calcraft grimly. "Well, that won't make him
sing Wagner any better in the _Watchman_. And as a matter of
politeness--if you will quote the polite ways of foreigners--he should
have left cards here before he sang. What name is on his pasteboard?
I've heard that his real one is something like Whizzina. He's a Croat, I
believe."

She indifferently took some cards from a bronze salver and read aloud:
"Adalbert Viznina, Tenor, Royal Opera, Prague."

"So-ho! a Bohemian. Well, it's all the same. Croatia is Czech. Your Mr.
Viznina can't sing a little bit. That vile, throaty German
tone-production of his--but why in thunder does he call himself Hinweg?
Viznina is a far prettier name. Perhaps Viznina is Hinweg in German!"

Tekla shrugged her strong shoulders and gazed outdoors. "What a wretched
day, and I have so much to do. Now, Cal, do come home early. We dine at
seven. No opera to-night, you know. And come back soon. We never spend
a night home alone together. What if this young man should call again?"

"Don't stop him," her husband answered in good-humored accents as he
bade her good-by. He was prepared to meet the world now, and in a jolly
mood. "Tell your Hinweg or Whizzerina, or whatever his name is, to sing
Tristan better to-morrow night than he did Siegmund, or there will be
more trouble." He skipped off. She called after him: