"Now this is nearly as pathetic as our best fiction," said Berkley; "ruined master, faithful man--_won't_ leave--starves slowly at his master's feet--tootle music very sneaky--'transformation! Burgess in heaven, blinking, puzzled, stretching one wing, reflectively scratching his halo with right hind foot. Angel chorus. Burgess appears to enjoy it and lights one of my best cigars----" "Sir?" said Burgess, very red. Berkley swung around, levelled his walking-stick, and indicated the pit of his servant's stomach: "Your face is talking now; wait till _that_ begins to yell. It will take more than I'm earning to fill it." He stood a moment, smiling, curious. Then: "You've been as faithless a valet as any servant who ever watered wine, lost a gimcrack, or hooked a weed. Studs, neckcloths, bootjacks, silk socks, pins, underwear--all magically and eventually faded from my wardrobe, wafted to those silent bournes of swag that valets wot of. What in hell do you want to stay _here_ for now, you amusing wastrel?" "Yes, sir. I'd prefer to stay with you." "But there'll be no more pleasant pickings, my poor and faithless steward! If you should convert anything more to your own bank account I'll be obliged to stroll about naked." "Yes, sir," muttered Burgess; "I brought back some things last night--them socks, shirt-pins and studs, and the fob. . . . Yes, sir; I fetched 'em back, I did--" A sudden and curious gleam of pride crossed the smirk for an instant;--"I guess my gentleman ain't agoing to _look_ no worse than the next Fifth Avenue swell he meets--even if he ain't et no devilled kidneys for breakfast and he don't dine on no canvas-back at Delmonico's. No, sir." Berkley sat down on the bed's edge and laughed until he could scarcely see the man, who observed him in patient annoyance. And every time Berkley looked at him he went into another fit of uncontrollable laughter, as he realised the one delightful weakness in this thorough-paced rogue--pride in the lustre cast upon himself by the immaculate appearance of a fashionable master. But after reflection, it did not astonish him too much; the besetting weakness of rogues is vanity in one form or another. This happened to be an unusual form. "Burgess," he said, "I don't care how you go to hell. Go with me if you like or go it alone." "Thank you, sir." "You're welcome," replied Berkley gravely, and, tucking his cane up under one arm, he went out to business, drawing on a pair of lemon-coloured kid gloves. Later he searched his pockets for the cigar he had denied himself the evening before. It was not there. In fact, at that moment, Burgess, in the boarding-house backyard, was promenading up and down, leering at the Swedish scullion, and enjoying the last expensive cigar that his master was likely to purchase in many a day.