THEIR FEE FOR AFFIXING THE CIPHER IS FIFTY GUINEAS. THE INSCRIPTION OF YOUR NAME AND ADDRESS IN THE VOLUME UPON THE TABLE WILL BE TAKEN AS A REQUEST TO VISIT YOUR HOUSE. SHOULD A REQUEST TO REVISIT BE RECEIVED, YOUR ENTRY WILL BE WAFERED. It will be seen that the Cheviots knew their world. They were, in fact, purveying pomps and vanity, admirably camouflaged to resemble virtu and guaranteed to afford the purchaser a feeling of warmth upon every remembrance of their possession. They were also effectually exploiting moral cowardice. Few, having read the terms, felt able to surprise the footman, who plainly took it for granted that an entry would be made in the book and had been specially chosen for his wholly respectful yet stern and compelling personality: and none, having registered therein, had the courage to allow their name to stand unwafered and so proclaim their disregard of what could only be regarded as a debt of honour. They had luck, of course. That the first person to enter the shop should have been Mrs. Drinkabeer Stoat was sheer good fortune. Extremely rich, a firm believer in display and the accumulation of worldly goods, the lady was secretly tormented by an anxiety lest such as beheld her possessions should form too low an estimate of their value as recorded by her pass-book: and since she delighted to maintain that the advertisement of payments made was the essence of vulgarity, much of her time was given to the contrivance of apparently innocent references to her latest extravagance from which should emerge such data as would enable and induce all within earshot to form an accurate opinion of what it had cost. There being many of Mrs. Stoat’s school, it follows that that lady’s patronage was worth a leader in _The Times_. Be sure she declared it from the housetops. “A long-felt want,” she boomed. “The moment I entered the shop I felt at home. At first I couldn’t think why. Suddenly it occurred to me—_style_. The Cheviots can visualize style. My dear, I could have wept with relief. When I think of how I implored Bucher’s to do the drawing-room in dove grey . . . I almost went down on my knees, but they wouldn’t listen. Blanche Cheviot comes to survey it, and what’s the first thing she says? ‘Dove grey.’ I’ve just sent her opinion to Bucher’s and told them to carry it out.” And so on. It was, of course, but natural that Titus should lose his nerve. When, upon being shown the first day’s entries, he perceived ‘requests to survey’ one library and two halls, he appeared for some moments to have lost the power of speech. Then he gave tongue. . . . Mercifully the storm broke behind closed doors. “I refuse,” he raged. “It’s criminally insane, and I won’t touch it. ‘Decorate a hall.’ I couldn’t decorate a bear-pit. An’ if I did, the bears wouldn’t work. They’d get egg-bound or something.” “Now, don’t be silly,” purred Blanche. “It’s the easiest——”