"No," said Mrs. Idiot, "it is merely logical. Whatever Polly Dawkins does she tries to do thoroughly. I've no doubt she'll do Balzac up completely. If she keeps social books showing call balances in her favor or against herself she might as well go the whole thing and write the children in--only she's made a mistake, as far as we are concerned, unless she means to write us off without squaring up."
"You talk like a financier," said the Idiot, admiringly. "What do you know about writing off?"
"I used to help my father with his accounts, occasionally," said Mrs. Idiot. "Polly Dawkins's books ought to show a balance of one call in our favor. That's really the reason I'm not willing to call there to-night. She's so queer about it all, and, as a matter of fact, she owes me a call. I'm not going to overwhelm her with an added obligation."
"Ho!" smiled the Idiot. "You keep books yourself, eh?"
"I keep score," said Mrs. Idiot. "I learned that playing golf."
"It's a bad thing to keep score in golf," said the Idiot.
"So they say, but I find it amusing," she replied.
"And how many calls does Mrs. Wilkins owe you?" demanded the Idiot.
"I don't know," returned the wife. "And I don't care. When I want to see Mrs. Wilkins I call on her whether she owes me a call or not, but with Polly Dawkins it's different. She began the book-keeping, and as long as she likes it I must try to live up to her ideas. If social intercourse develops into a business, business requirements must be observed."
"It's a good idea in a way," said the Idiot, reflectively. "But if you make a business of society, why don't you carry it to a logical conclusion? Balance your books, if you mean business, every month, and send your debtors a statement of their account."
"Well, I will if you wish me to," said Mrs. Idiot. "Suppose they don't pay?"
"Dun 'em," said the Idiot. And then the matter dropped.
On the fifth of the following month Mr. and Mrs. Idiot were seated comfortably in their library. The children had gone to bed, and they were enjoying the bliss of a quiet evening at home, when the door-bell rang, and in a moment or two the maid ushered in Mr. and Mrs. Richard Dawkins, preceded, of course, by their cards. The young householders were delighted, and Polly Dawkins was never more charming. She looked well, and she talked well, and there was not a symptom of any diminution of the old-time friendship perceptible--only she did appear to be tired and care-worn.