There were three of us in the smoke-room of the Alexandra—a very good friend of mine, myself, and, in the opposite corner, a shy-looking, unobtrusive man, the editor, as we subsequently learned, of a New York Sunday paper.

My friend and I were discussing habits, good and bad.

“After the first few months,” said my friend, “it is no more effort for a man to be a saint than to be a sinner; it becomes a mere matter of habit.”

“I know,” I interrupted, “it is every whit as easy to spri

ng out of bed the instant you are called as to say ‘All Right,’ and turn over for just another five minutes’ snooze, when you have got into the way of it. It is no more trouble not to swear than to swear, if you make a custom of it. Toast and water is as delicious as champagne, when you have acquired the taste for it. Things are also just as easy the other way about. It is a mere question of making your choice and sticking to it.”

He agreed with me.

“Now take these cigars of mine,” he said, pushing his open case towards me.

“Thank you,” I replied hurriedly, “I’m not smoking this passage.”

“Don’t be alarmed,” he answered, “I meant merely as an argument. Now one of these would make you wretched for a week.”

I admitted his premise.

“Very well,” he continued. “Now