In the sombre days of December a double gloom settled down upon the sacred precincts of Mayfair. But little incense was being heaped on the shrine of luxury and pride. The fire of fashion burnt low, smouldering and smoky beneath the lowering clouds. Even Billy of Mayfair, who was usually as light of heart as he was agile of leg, felt the oppressive influence of things. His friend Joe had become an absolute pessimist for the time being, and even had high words with the wife of his bosom concerning the proposed baptism of his third-born child. Then Mrs Joe craftily enlisted the aid of Father Francis. Joe had a reasonable respect for the clergy, and a still profounder reverence for the peerage. Father Francis, he knew, was the Duke of Portsdown’s son; he had been to Dorking for an excursion, and had some acquaintance with the ducal grooms. So, though he showed fight, he touched his bare forehead, quite prepared for a theological crusher, though not necessarily to be convinced. “Look ’ere, sir,” said Joe, “what’s the good of it, that’s wot I want to know. Wot’s the blessed good of pouring a little water on a baby’s ’ead?” It was an inspiration that enabled Father Francis to give the very answer that appealed to Joe. “Well, my friend,” said he, “we’ve all got to obey somebody’s orders, haven’t we?” “That’s right enough,” agreed Joe, tightening his belt. “Well, our Lord commanded it.” Joe brightened instantly; it simplified the position wonderfully. “Blest if that ain’t the best answer I’ve ’eard,” said the stableman cheerfully. And the child was called Francis Joseph--not after the Emperor of Austria, of whom the parents knew nothing, but after the curate in charge of St Stephen’s Church, and Joseph, the infant’s father.