to the front steps, and received with delight a gracious word of thanks for his attentions. So the Marquis took his departure.

Mr. Wadham, Junior, closed the door and threw himself into the chair which had been occupied by their distinguished client. There was a faint perfume of lavender water remaining in the atmosphere. His eyes wandered around the further rows of tin boxes which encumbered the wall.

"I suppose," he murmured, "it's a great thing to have a Marquis for one's client."

"I suppose it is," Mr. Wadham, Senior, assented gloomily.

"Father, do you ever feel at ease with him?" his son asked curiously. "Do you ever feel as though you were talking to a real human being, of the same flesh and blood as yourself?"

"Never for a single moment," was the vigorous reply. "If I felt like that, John, do you know what I should do? No? Well, then, I'll tell you. I should have those tin boxes taken out, one by one, and stacked in the hall. I should say to him, as plainly as I am saying it to you—'We lose money every year by your business, Marquis. We've had our turn. Try some one else—and go to the Devil!'"

"But you couldn't do it!" Mr. Wadham, Junior, observed disconsolately.

"I couldn't," his father agreed, with a note of subdued melancholy in his tone.