cheeks, and instantaneous
pin-pricks of fire enlivened his long-suffering eyes. But again he
said nothing. And since his eyes were downcast, George was unaware of
their fitful incandescence.

Puffing vigorously at his cigarette, he rocked back and forth on the
hind legs of his chair and crowed in jubilation: "Perceval! O you
great, big, beautiful Perc'!"

P. Sybarite made a motion as if to tear the note across, hesitated,
and reconsidered. Through a long minute he sat thoughtfully examining
the tickets presented him by his aff'te cousin.

In his ears rang the hideous tumult of George's joy:

"_Per-ce-val!_"

Drawing to him one of the Whigham & Wimper letterheads, P. Sybarite
dipped a pen, considered briefly, and wrote rapidly and freely in a
minute hand:

MY DEAR MAE ALYS:--

Every man has his price. You know mine. Pocketing false pride, I
accept your bounty with all the gratitude and humility becoming in
a poor relation. And if arrested for appearing in the box without
evening clothes, I promise solemnly to brazen it out, pretend that
I bought the tickets myself--or stole them--and keep the newspapers
ignorant of our kinship. Fear not--trust me--and enjoy the masque
as much as I mean to enjoy "Kismet."

And if you would do me the greatest of favours--should you ever
again find an excuse to write me on any matter, please address me
by the initial of my ridiculous first name only; it is of course
impossible for me to live down the deep damnation of having been
born a Sybarite; but the indulgence of my friends can save me the
further degradation of being known as Perceval.

With thanks renewed and profound, I remain, all things considered,

Remotely yours,

P. SYBARITE.

This he sealed and addressed in a stamped envelope: then thrust his
pen into a raw but none the less antique potato; covered the red and
black inkwells; closed the ledger; locked the petty-cash box and put
it away; painstakingly arranged the blotters, paste-pot, and all the
clerical paraphernalia of his desk; and slewed round on his stool to
blink pensively at Mr. Bross.

That gentleman, having some time since despaired of any response to
his persistent baiting, was now preoccupied with a hand-mirror and
endeavours to erase the smudge of marking-ink from his face by means
of a handkerchief which he now and again moistened in an engagingly
natural and unaffected manner.

"It's no use, George," observed