But, as a matter of fact, I need not have concerned myself about
the hat. When I descended to breakfast the next morning I found
her surveying the umbrella-stand in the hall. The fire-tongs were
standing there, gleaming, among my sticks and umbrellas.
I lied. I lied shamelessly. She is a nervous woman, and, as we
have no children, her attitude toward me is one of watchful waiting.
Through long years she has expected me to commit some indiscretion
--innocent, of course, such as going out without my overcoat on a
cool day--and she intends to be on hand for every emergency. I
dared not confess, therefore, that on the previous evening I had
burglariously entered a closed house, had there surprised another
intruder at work, had fallen and bumped my head severely, and had,
finally, had my overcoat taken.
"Horace," she said coldly, "where did you get those fire-tongs?"
"Fire-tongs?" I repeated. "Why, that's so. They are fire-tongs."
"Where did you get them?"
"My dear," I expostulated, "I get them?"
"What I would like to ask," she said, with an icy calmness that I
have learned to dread, "is whether you carried them home over your
head, under the impression that you had your umbrella."
"Certainly not," I said with dignity.
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