age that company was richer by the unpaid services of a
highly certificated engineer.

AN ERROR IN THE FOURTH DIMENSION

Before he was thirty, he discovered that there was no one to play
with him. Though the wealth of three toilsome generations stood to
his account, though his tastes in the matter of books, bindings,
rugs, swords, bronzes, lacquer, pictures, plate, statuary, horses,
conservatories, and agriculture were educated and catholic, the public
opinion of his country wanted to know why he did not go to office daily,
as his father had before him.

So he fled, and they howled behind him that he was an unpatriotic
Anglomaniac, born to consume fruits, one totally lacking in public
spirit. He wore an eyeglass; he had built a wall round his country
house, with a high gate that shut, instead of inviting America to sit on
his flower-beds; he ordered his clothes from England; and the press of
his abiding city cursed him, from his eye-glass to his trousers, for two
consecutive days.

When he rose to light again, it was where nothing less than the tents of
an invading army in Piccadilly would make any difference to anybody. If
he had money and leisure, England stood ready to give him all that money
and leisure could buy. That price paid, she would ask no questions. He
took his cheque-book and accumulated things--warily at first, for
he remembered that in America things own the man. To his delight, he
discovered that in England he could put his belongings under his feet;
for classes, ranks, and denominations of people rose, as it were, from
the earth, and silently and discreetly took charge of his possessions.
They had been born and bred for that sole purpose--servants of the
cheque-book. When that was at an end they would depart as mysteriously
as they had come.

The impenetrability of this regulated life irritated him, and he
strove to learn something of the human side of these people. He
retired baffled, to be trained by his menials. In America, the native
demoralises the English servant. In England, the servant educates the
master. Wilton Sargent strove to learn all they taught as ardently as
his father had striven to wreck, before capture, the railways of his
native land; and it must have been some touch of the old bandit railway
blood that bade him buy, for a song, Holt Hangars, whose forty-acre
lawn, as every one knows, sweeps down in velvet to the quadruple
tracks of the Great Buchonian Railway. Their