ever! Jimmy, love. You are too good for that."

"Am I? That remains to be proved. And just at present the evidence is
accumulating by the ream on the other side--reams of rejected MS."

"You haven't found yourself yet; that is all."

He forced a smile. "Let's offer a reward. 'Lost: the key to James and
Isobel Jimaboy's success in life. Finder will be suitably recompensed on
returning same to 506 Hayward Avenue, Cleland, Ohio.'"

She leaned over and planted a soft little kiss on the exact spot on his
forehead where it would do the most good.

"I could take the city examination and teach, if you'd let me, Jimmy."

He shook his head definitely. That was ground which had been gone over
before.

"Teach little babies their a b c's? I'm afraid that isn't your
specialty, heart of mine. Now if you could teach other women the art of
making a man believe that he has cornered the entire visible supply of
ecstatic thrills in marrying the woman of his choice--by Jove, now!
there's an idea!"

Now Jimaboy had no idea in particular; he never had an idea that he did
not immediately coin it into words and try to sell it. But Isobel's eyes
were suspiciously bright, and the situation had to be saved.

"I was just thinking: the thing to do successfully is the--er--the thing
you do best, isn't it?"

She laughed, in spite of the unpaid bills.

"Why can't you put clever things like that into your stories, Jimmy,
dear?"

"As if I didn't!" he retorted. "But don't step on my idea and squash it
while it's in the soft-shell-crab stage. As I said, I was thinking:
there is just one thing we can give the world odds on and beat it out of
sight. And that thing is our long suit--our specialty."

"But you said you had an idea," said Isobel, whose private specialty was
singleness of purpose.

"Oh--yes," said Jimaboy. Then he smote hard upon the anvil and forged
one on the spur of the moment. "Suppose we call it The Post-Graduate
School of W. B., Professor James Augustus Jimaboy, principal; Mrs.
Isobel Jimaboy, assistant principal. How would that sound?"

"It would sound like the steam siren on the planing mill. But what is
the 'W. B.'?"

"'Wedded Bliss,' of course. Here is the way it figures out. We've been
married three years, and--"

"Three years, five months and fourteen days," she corrected.

"Excellent! That accuracy of yours would be worth a fortune on the
faculty. But let me finish--during these three years, five months and
fou