w.
Surely this was some base contrivance of the enemy. They had been
underselling and outadvertising him for months, and had ousted him from the
custom of several large firms already. Something had to be done. As has
been remarked before, Sypher was a man of Napoleonic methods. He called for
a telegraph form, and wrote as he stood, with the tray as a desk:

"If you can't buy advertising rights on St. Paul's Cathedral or
Westminster Abbey, secure outside pages of usual dailies for Thursday. Will
draw up 'ad' myself."

He gave it to the servant, smiled in anticipation of the battle, and felt
better. When Zora, Emmy, and Septimus appeared at the turn of the drive, he
rushed to meet them, beaming with welcome and exuberant in phrase. This was
the best housewarming that could be imagined. Just three friends to
luncheon--three live people. A gathering of pale-souled folk would have
converted the house into a chilly barn. They would warm it with the glow of
friendship. Mrs. Middlemist, looking like a rose in June, had already
irradiated the wan November garden. Miss Oldrieve he likened to a spring
crocus, and Septimus (with a slap on the back) could choose the vegetable
he would like to resemble. They must look over the house before lunch.
Afterwards, outside, the great surprise awaited them. What was it? Ah! He
turned laughing eyes on them, like a boy.

The great London firm to whom he had entrusted the furniture and decoration
had done their splendid worst. The drawing-room had the appearance of an
hotel sitting-room trying to look coy. An air of factitious geniality
pervaded the dining-room. An engraving of Frans Hals's "Laughing Cavalier"
hung with too great a semblance of jollity over the oak sideboard.
Everything was too new, too ordered, too unindividual; but Sypher loved it,
especially the high-art wall-paper and restless frieze. Zora, a woman of
instinctive taste, who, if she bought a bedroom water-bottle, managed to
identify it with her own personality, professed her admiration with a
woman's pitying mendacity, but resolved to change many things for the good
of Clem Sypher's soul. Emmy, still pale and preoccupied, said little. She
was not in a mood to appreciate Clem Sypher, whose loud voice and
Napoleonic manners jarred upon her nerves. Septimus thought it all
prodigiously fine, whereat Emmy waxed sarcastic.

"I wish I could do something for you," he said, heedless of her taunts,
during a moment when they were ou