be to breathe softly and make no mention of
the Post-Graduate School of W. B. Then the other tenants would never
know, and the postman would never know. Of course, the non-delivery of
the mail might bring troublesome inquiry upon the _Times_ advertising
department, but, as Jimaboy remarked maliciously, that was none of their
funeral.

Accordingly, they breathed softly for a continuous week, and carefully
avoided personal collisions with the postman. But temporary barricades
are poor defenses at the best. One day as they were stealthily scurrying
out to luncheon--they had acquired the stealthy habit to perfection by
this time--they ran plump into the laden mail carrier in the lower hall.

"Hello!" said he; "you are just the people I've been looking for. I have
a lot of letters and postal cards for The Post-Graduate School of
something or other, 506 Hayward. Do you know anything about it?"

They exchanged glances. Isobel's said, "Are you going to make _me_ tell
the fib?" and Jimaboy's said, "Help!"

"I--er--I guess maybe they belong to us"--it was the man who weakened.
"At least, it was our advertisement that brought them. Much obliged, I'm
sure." And a breathless minute later they were back in their rooms with
the fateful and fearfully bulky packet on the desk between them and such
purely physical and routine things as luncheon quite forgotten.

"James Augustus Jimaboy! What have you done?" demanded the accusing
angel.

"Well, somebody had to say something, and you wouldn't say it," retorted
Jimaboy.

"Jimmy, did you want me to lie?"

"That's what you wanted me to do, wasn't it? But perhaps you think that
one lie, more or less, wouldn't cut any figure in my case."

"Jimmy, dear, don't be horrid. You know perfectly well that your
curiosity to see what is in those letters was too much for you."

Jimaboy walked to the window and shoved his hands deep into his pockets.
It was their first quarrel, and being unfamiliar with the weapons of
that warfare, he did not know which one to draw next. And the one he did
draw was a tin dagger, crumpling under the blow.

"It has been my impression all along that curiosity was a feminine
weakness," he observed to the windowpanes.

"James Jimaboy! You know better than that! You've Said a dozen times in
your stories that it was just the other way about--you know you have.
And, besides, I didn't let the cat out of the bag."

Here was where Jimaboy's sense of humor came in. He