THE WRONG COAT
dyspeptic countenance and lusterless eye of the typical writer of funny fancies. When my uncle died and left me a comfortable income, Art received a staggering blow, from which it is doubtful she will ever recover. A spinster aunt insists that I am more than ordinarily agreeable to the eye; but, of course, blood is partial to blood. That is enough for the present of what the amiable Thackeray called "first person, singular, perpendicular."
When once more in the street, I boldly approached the steps, mounted slowly, and pushed the button. If a maid or a footman should open the door, I should know instantly that it was not servants' night off. It remained
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