right start."

She frowned slightly. "Couldn't think of it," said she, in the
tone of one whose forbearance is about at an end. "I hate the
early morning."

"We usually hate what's best for us. But, if we're sensible, we do
it until it becomes a habit that we don't mind--or positively
like."

This philosophy of the indisputable and the sensible brimmed the
measure. "What would you think of me," said she, in her
pleasantest, most deliberately irritating way in the world, "if I
were to insist that you get up late and breakfast late? You should
learn to let live as well as to live. You are too fond of trying
to compel everybody to do as you wish."

"I make 'em see that what I wish is what they ought. That's not
compelling."

"It's even more unpopular."

"I'm not looking for popularity, but for success."

"Well, please don't annoy me in the mornings hereafter."

"You don't seem to realize you've renounced your foolish idlers
and all their ways, and have joined the working classes." His good
humor had come back with breakfast; he had finished two large
trout, much bread and marmalade and coffee--and it had given her a