yself in trouble as to exactly how to
express myself. I want to convince you. I am myself entirely and
absolutely convinced as to the justice of the cause I plead. I want you
to reconsider your decision of the other night."

Burton shook his head.

"I am afraid," he said, uneasily, "that that is not possible."

Mr. Bomford cleared his throat. He was only externally a fool.

"Mr. Burton," he declared, "you are an artist. Your child has the
makings of a great artist. Have you no desire to travel? Have you no
desire to see the famous picture galleries and cities of the Continent,
cities which have been the birthplaces of the men whose works you and
your son in days to come will regard with so much reverence?"

"I should like to travel very much indeed," Burton admitted.

"It is the opportunity to travel which we offer you," Mr. Bomford
reminded him. "It is the opportunity to surround yourself with
beautiful objects, the opportunity to make your life free from
anxieties, a cultured phase of being during which, removed from all
material cares, you can--er--develop yourself and the boy in any
direction you choose."

Mr. Bomford stopped and coughed. Again he was pleased with himself.

"Money is only vulgar," he went on, "to vulgar minds. And remember
this--that underlying the whole thing there is Truth. The beans which
you and the boy have eaten do contain something of the miraculous.
Those same constituents would be blended in the preparation which we
shall offer to the public. Have you no faith in them? Why should you
not believe it possible that the ingredients which have made so great a
change in you and that child, may not influence for the better the whole
world of your fellow-creatures? Omit for a moment the reflection that
you yourself would benefit so much by the acceptance of my offer.
Consider only your fellow human creatures. Don't you realize--can't you
see that in acceding to our offer you will be acting the part of a
philanthropist?"

"Mr. Bomford," Burton said, leaning a little forward, "in all your
arguments you forget one thing. My stock of these beans is already
perilously low. When they are gone, I remain no more what I hope and
believe I am at the present moment. Once more I revert to the
impossible: I become the auctioneer's clerk--a commonplace, material,
vulgar, objectionable little bounder, whose doings and feelings I
sometimes dimly remember. Can't you imagine what sort of use a person
like