What did they talk about? They were arranging the details of parties, Wilfred assumed; small, discreet parties, conducted without danger of discovery. That would be Joe’s business. Wilfred’s opulent imagination proceeded to supply the details of their parties. Oh Heaven! supreme luxury and voluptuousness! And Joe of course, a sharer in it all. Envy suffocated him. Joe had turned out such a tall, handsome, graceful fellow. And no foolish scruples to hamper him! Joe shared in it; the soulless gutter-snipe; the lad no older than himself; he had everything; money; good clothes; admiration; and endless pleasure: while he, Wilfred who _had_ imagination and feeling was poor and half-baked and despised and starving for joy! Why didn’t the dull millionaire come to _him_ for his pleasures? He had imagination. In Joe’s parties there would be a leer; but in _his_ only a mad, mad joy! In the midst of this Wilfred grinned bitterly at himself; for he knew well enough that he was shameless only in his imagination. A shivering fastidiousness held him in leash. After all, Joe was a fitter instrument for the millionaire. These talks between Mr. Gore and Joe always ended in the same way. Mr. Gore pulled out a little drawer in his desk, and took something from it that found its way into Joe’s trousers pocket. The fool! thought Wilfred; does he suppose I’m not on to him? Always, later, a check would be made out to a certain Harry Bannerman, a creature of Mr. Gore’s, who would carry it to the bank; and bring back the wherewithal to replenish the drawer against Joe’s next visit. Many hundreds of dollars weekly. Mr. Gore did not require cash for anything else, since he had credit everywhere. And then Joe, sleek and elegant as a panther, would steam out, scattering good-byes; and Mr. Gore, resuming his ordinary sulky mask, would glance intimidatingly at poor Dobereiner and Wilfred, as if daring them to suggest that he had ever dropped it. Dobereiner of course, had no thought of criticizing his master; and Wilfred at least adopted a polite air of inscrutability. On this occasion whether or not Mr. Gore suspected the thoughts that Wilfred hid under it, he said: “Bring over your note-book, Pell.” Wilfred obeyed with a heart full of bitterness—sharp apprehension, too. _He_ was required to make pot-hooks while Joe was sent out with a pocketful of money, to scour the markets for beauty! The inevitable humiliation awaited him now; perhaps the final humiliation. Wilfred hated his job, but was none the less terrified of losing it. For where would he, the timid, the self-distrustful, the half-baked, find another? And how could he ever face the Aunts who had plotted for years to obtain this job for him? After an unhappy quarter of an hour Mr. Gore said in a bored voice: “. . . Er . . . How long does it take to learn shorthand?” “Three months,” murmured Wilfred. “You’ve been studying it longer than that.” “It’s difficult . . . to apply oneself at night.”