"Mac, you old son-of-a-gun!" "Got a man's breakfast?" McClintock demanded to know. Wood had the advantage of her husband in point of years, being on the sunny side of forty,—a period pronounced by competent judges to be the most fascinating, and, at the same time, most critical epoch of woman's existence,—whereas, he was on the shady side of fifty,—a term of life not generally conceived to have any special recommendation in female eyes. “Your name and address were upon an envelope found in the pocket of an Englishman who was brought here late last night suffering from serious injuries,” he said in a dry official tone. And as a natural consequence, they don’t do so well, and they don’t get on—and so the world doesn’t pay them. Among the commercial enticements McClintock found a real letter.
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