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Sally, naturally enough, was delighted at this idea, and forgot all about her poor, numb arm. But the scheme sounded better than it worked. Because when we went in to dinner the guests, instead of being put to shame by the sight of the newspapers, actually sputtered with pleasure, and fell on them and unfolded them and opened them at the financial pages. And then the men began to shout, and argue, and perspire, and fling quotations about the table, and the women got very shrill, and said they didn’t know what they would do if the wretched market kept up, or rather if it didn’t keep up. And nobody admired the new furniture or the pictures, or the old Fiffield plate, or Sally’s gown, or said anything pleasant and agreeable.

“Sam,” said Tony Marshall to me, “I’m glad that you can empty your new swimming-pool in three-quarters of an hour, but if you don’t watch out you may be so poor before the winter’s over that you won’t be able to buy water enough to fill it.”

“If you’re not careful,” I said, “I’ll fill it with champagne and make you people swim in it till you’re more sprightly and agreeable. I never saw such a lot of oafs. I–“

“I tell you, Sam,” bellowed Billoo, “that the financial status of this country, owing to that infernal lunatic in the White House–“

“If you must tell me again–” I began.

“Oh,” he said disgustedly, “you can’t be serious about anything. You’re so da–a–ah–urn–rich that you never give a thought to the suffering of the consumer.”

“Don’t I?” said I. “Did you happen to see me the morning after the Clarion’s ball last winter?–I thought about the consumer then, I can tell you.”

Billoo turned his back on me very rudely. I looked across the table to Sally. She smiled feebly. She had drawn back her chair so that Tombs and Randall could fight it out across her plate without hitting her in the nose. They were frantically shaking their fists at each other, and they kept saying very loud, and both at once:

“I tell you!” and they made that beginning over and over, and never got any further.

At two o’clock the next morning Mrs. Giddings turned to Sally and said:

“And now, my dear, I can’t wait another moment. You must show me all over your lovely new house. I can think of nothing else.”

“Can’t you?” said Sally. “I can. It’s two o’clock. But I’ll show you to your own lovely room, if you like.”

In the morning I sent for Blenheim, and told him to take all the Sunday papers as soon as they arrived and throw them overboard. All I meant to be was tactful. But it wouldn’t do. The first thing the men asked for was the papers; and the second thing. And finally they made such a fuss and threw out so many hints that I had to send the motor-boat over to the main-land. This made me rather sore at the moment, and I wished that the motor-boat was at the bottom of the Sound; but it wasn’t, and had to be sent.

Later in the day I was struck with an idea. It was one of the few that ever struck me without outside help, and I will keep it dark for the present. But when I got Sally alone I said to her:

“Now, Sally, answer prettily: do you or do you not know what plausible weather is?”

“I do not,” she said promptly.

“Of course, you do not,” I said, “you miserable little ignoramus. It has to do with an idea.”

“No, Sam!” cried Sally.

“One of mine,” I said.

“Oh, Sam!” she said. “Can I help?”

“You can.”

“How?”

“You can pray for it.”

“For the idea?” she asked.

“No, you silly little goat,” I said. “For the plausible weather.”

“Must I?” she asked.

“You must,” I said. “If you have marrow-bones, prepare to use them now.”

Sally looked really shocked.

“Knees,” I explained. “They’re the same thing. But now that I think of it, you needn’t use yours. If anybody were looking, it would be different, of course. But nobody is, and you may use mine.”