Nicorax says I have no delicacy; she hasn’t forgiven me about the mice. You see, when I was staying down there, a mouse used to cakewalk about my room half the night, and none of their silly patent traps seemed to take its fancy as a bijou residence, so I determined to appeal to the better side of it⁠—which with mice is the inside. So I called it Percy, and put little delicacies down near its hole every night, and that kept it quiet while I read Max Nordau’s Degeneration and other reproving literature, and went to sleep. And now she says there is a whole colony of mice in that room.

That isn’t where the indelicacy comes in. She went out riding with me, which was entirely her own suggestion, and as we were coming home through some meadows she made a quite unnecessary attempt to see if her pony would jump a rather messy sort of brook that was there. It wouldn’t. It went with her as far as the water’s edge, and from that point Mrs.