ell back in its proper place in the
History alcove when Helen and Titania returned from the movies. Bock,
who had been dozing under his master's chair, rose politely and wagged
a deferential tail.

"I do think Bock has the darlingest manners," said Titania.

"Yes," said Helen, "it's really a marvel that his wagging muscles
aren't all worn out, he has abused them so."

"Well," said Roger, "did you have a good time?"

"An adorable time!" cried Titania, with a face and voice so sparkling
that two musty habitues of the shop popped their heads out of the
alcoves marked ESSAYS and THEOLOGY and peered in amazement. One of
these even went so far as to purchase the copy of Leigh Hunt's Wishing
Cap Papers he had been munching through, in order to have an excuse to
approach the group and satisfy his bewildered eyes. When Miss Chapman
took the book and wrapped it up for him, his astonishment was made
complete.

Unconscious that she was actually creating business, Titania resumed.

"We met your friend Mr. Gilbert on the street," she said, "and he went
to the movies with us. He says he's coming in on Monday to fix the
furnace while you're away."

"Well," said Roger, "these advertising agencies are certainly
enterprising, aren't they? Think of sending a man over to attend to my
furnace, just on the slim chance of getting my advertising account."

"Did you have a quiet evening?" said Helen.

"I spent most of the time writing to Andrew," said Roger. "One amusing
thing happened, though. I actually sold that copy of Philip Dru."

"No!" cried Helen.

"A fact," said Roger. "A man was looking at it, and I told him it was
supposed to be written by Colonel House. He insisted on buying it.
But what a sell when he tries to read it!"

"Did Colonel House really write it?" asked Titania.

"I don't know," said Roger. "I hope not, because I find in myself a
secret tendency to believe that Mr. House is an able man. If he did
write it, I devoutly hope none of the foreign statesmen in Paris will
learn of that fact."

While Helen and Titania took off their wraps, Roger was busy closing up
the shop. He went down to the corner with Bock to mail his letter, and
when he returned to the den Helen had prepared a large jug of cocoa.
They sat down by the fire to enjoy it.

"Chesterton has written a very savage poem against cocoa," said Roger,
"which you will find in The Flying Inn; but for my part I find it the
ideal evening drink.