to be Master. The
only question is who."

Mary had unwrapped the paper parcel. It contained half a sheep's head.
"How would you like it done?" she whispered.

Mr. Simson considered. There came a softer look into his eyes. "How did
you do it last time?" he asked. "It came up brown, I remember, with
thick gravy."

"Braised," suggested Mary.

"That's the word," agreed Mr. Simson. "Braised." He watched while Mary
took things needful from the cupboard, and commenced to peel an onion.

"That's the sort that makes me despair of the People," said Mr. Simson.
Joan could not be sure whether he was addressing her individually or
imaginary thousands. "Likes working for nothing. Thinks she was born to
be everybody's servant." He seated himself beside Miss Ensor on the
antiquated sofa. It gave a complaining groan but held out.

"Did you have a good house?" the girl asked him. "Saw you from the
distance, waving your arms about. Hadn't time to stop."

"Not many," admitted Mr. Simson. "A Christmassy lot. You know. Sort of
crowd that interrupts you and tries to be funny. Dead to their own
interests. It's slow work."

"Why do you do it?" asked Miss Ensor.

"Damned if I know," answered Mr. Simson, with a burst of candour. "Can't
help it, I suppose. Lost me job again."

"The old story?" suggested Miss Ensor.

"The old story," sighed Mr. Simson. "One of the customers happened to be
passing last Wednesday when I was speaking on the Embankment. Heard my
opinion of the middle classes?"

"Well, you can't expect 'em to like it, can you?" submitted Miss Ensor.

"No," admitted Mr. Simson with generosity. "It's only natural. It's a
fight to the finish between me and the Bourgeois. I cover them with
ridicule and contempt and they hit back at me in the only way they know."

"Take care they don't get the best of you," Miss Ensor advised him.

"Oh, I'm not afraid," he answered. "I'll get another place all right:
give me time. The only thing I'm worried about is my young woman."

"Doesn't agree with you?" inquired Miss Ensor.

"Oh, it isn't that," he answered. "But she's frightened. You know. Says
life with me is going to be a bit too uncertain for her. Perhaps she's
right."

"Oh, why don't you chuck it," advised Miss Ensor, "give the Bourgeois a
rest."

Mr. Simson shook his head. "Somebody's got to tackle them," he said.
"Tell them the truth about themselves, to their faces."

"Yes, but it needn't