They approached him delicately, without success. The Groom of the Chambers was respectful, but resolute. He declined the offer gently, but definitely and without hesitation. Then he excused himself and withdrew to continue his revision of the library’s catalogue. As the door closed— “’Ell,” said Mr. Harp, subjecting his nose to violence. “Me too,” said his wife miserably. “I’d set me ’eart on that, I ’ad. ’E’ld look so lovely in a dress-soot, too. An’ now . . .” A fat tear of disappointment made its appearance, and, after poising for an instant upon the brow of her cheek, fell heavily into the broad valley of her lap. Mr. Harp rose to the occasion and crossed to her side. “There, there, me dear,” he said kindly, “don’ take on. We can’t ’ave everything. Bowler’s very tryin’, in course, but——” “I ’ate the brute,” sobbed his wife. “Anyone would. Nasty, ’ulkin’ wretch. Laughin’ and sneerin’ at us ’cos we ain’t gentry; and takin’ our money and food, ’and over fist. An’ hall the rest as bad, and that impudent, no one would never believe. An’ the honly one wot is hones’ and respec’ful as good as in ’idin’—goes out o’ the room when we comes in, comes in when we goes out, ’ides. . . . It’s too crool,’Arp, and that’s the truth. Worcester’s a walkin’ treat. ’E puts a thousan’ pound on the ’ouse—easy. An’ ’alf the blighters comin’ ’ll never know ’e’s ’ere.” “I’ll see they know,” said Mr. Harp violently. “I’ll fix that. Besides, they’ll ’appen acrost ’im in the course of ’is dooties—boun’ to.” “’Snot the same,” cried his wife. “You know it ain’t. We’re buryin’ a talent, we are. Other folk ’as fine ’ouses, but there ain’t a mansion in London wot’s got a servant like ’im. ’E tones the whole show up. We ain’t stylish, and as for Bowler and the rest of them rotten sneaks, they’d let a doss-’ouse down: but Worcester’s a peach. . . . An’ we’re _buryin’ ’im_.” Her husband stamped to the window and regarded his smiling acres with a dismal stare. Mrs. Harp had a knack of reciting unpleasant facts with a pitiless clarity which paralysed consolation. Presently, he took a cigar from his waistcoat-pocket and, after savaging the butt, thrust his quarry reflectively between his teeth. As he felt for a match, the idea flashed into his mind. Trembling with excitement, he snatched the cigar from his lips, and swung round, mouthing. “Jane, I’ve got it! Got it in one, I ’ave! Oh, lovely! Listen ’ere. Worcester’s Groom of the Chambers, ain’t he? Good. ’E shall ’ave a show as’ll beat the ragtime band—’e, an’ the ’ouse and us, the ’ole year round. ’Old me, someone: I’m that excited and wrought, I can’t talk straight. Listen ’ere. Chancery’s a show place, ain’t it? Figures in the ’istories and guides—used to be shown, once. Well _we’ll show it again—throw it open to visitors daily, from two to four_. The visitors won’ worry us—I’ll love to see ’em. _An’ Worcester ’ll show ’em round. . . ._”