“I wish it could be called a great career, my dear lady,” he answered, feeling that she was a person whose death would deserve a paragraph simply on account of the extraordinary knowledge of the world she possessed. “Unfortunately it has been a very ordinary one, but I can assure you that I am most glad to meet you to-night. I ought to have been at a City dinner, and shall always congratulate myself on my happier condition.” “I should like to see a City dinner,” Mrs. Baines said sadly. “I wish I could send you my invitations. I go to too many, I fear.” “I suppose you have been to a great many also, Mr. Wimple?” Aunt Anne inquired, careful to exclude no one from her little court. “To one only, I regret to say, Mrs. Baines,” Mr. Wimple answered solemnly; “four years ago I went to the solitary one I ever attended.” “Ah, that was during the mayoralty of Sir William Rammage.” “Do you know him, Mrs. Baines, or do you keep a record of the Lord Mayors?” Mr. Fisher asked. “I knew him well, years and years—I am afraid I should shock you—you are all so young—if I said how many years ago,” she answered; and Mr. Fisher, who was well on in his forties, thought she was really a charming old lady. “He is a great friend of my uncle’s, he is a very old client of his,” Mr. Wimple said, looking at Mrs. Baines again with his strange fixed gaze, while Ethel Dunlop thought that that horrid Mr. Wimple was actually making eyes at the old lady as he did at every one else. “And may I ask if you also are on intimate terms with him?” Mrs. Baines said. “No, I have only met him at my uncle’s. He is very rich,” he added, with a sigh, “and rich people are not much in my way. Literary people and out-at-elbow scribblers are my usual associates; for,” he went on, remembering that there was a possibility of doing some business with Mr. Fisher, and that he had better make an impression on the great man, “I never met any illustrious members of the profession till to-night, excepting our friend Walter of course.” Mr. Fisher looked a little disgusted and turned to the young lady of the party. “Have you been very musical lately, Miss Dunlop?” he inquired. “No,” she answered, “not very. But we enjoyed the concert. It was very kind of you to send the tickets.” The editor’s face lighted up. “I am glad,” he said; “and did you find a pleasant chaperon?” “Oh yes, thank you. I went with my cousin, George Dighton.” “Is that the good-looking youth I saw you with once?” “Youth,” Ethel laughed; “he is three-and-twenty.” “A most mature age,” and a smile flickered over Mr. Fisher’s grave face; “and does he often escort you to concerts?” “Occasionally.” “He is fortunate in having the privilege as well as the time to avail himself of it,” the editor said formally. His manner was always reserved, sometimes even a little stately. Now and then, oddly enough, it reminded one of Aunt Anne’s, though it was a generation younger, and he had not her faculty for long words.