Mr Beecham had so few visitors in his village quarters, that he had not yet found it necessary to give the attendants at the _King’s Head_ the unpalatable but frequently unavoidable instruction to say ‘Not at home.’ So that, on Wrentham’s arrival, his name was at once conveyed to him. The message brought back was that, if Mr Wrentham would be good enough to wait for a few minutes, Mr Beecham would be ready to receive him. When at length he was shown into the room, Mr Beecham was closing a large envelope, which he placed on his desk in order to shake hands with his visitor. At each side of the desk was a bright lamp with a white shade, reflecting the light full upon the document he had laid down. Wrentham had no difficulty in reading the address. ‘Hope I am not disturbing you. Got home early, and took it into my head to come down and have a cigar and a chat. If you’re busy, I’ll bolt.’ ‘No necessity. I had only to address an envelope to a friend with some inclosures, and that is done. You are very welcome to-night, although we are not likely to have a chat, as I have invited some young people to a conjuring entertainment.’ ‘I am afraid you will find me an ungracious guest,’ said Wrentham, laughing, ‘for I had made up my mind to have a quiet evening with you alone, and I have no fancy for jugglers—their tricks are all so stale.’ ‘You will find this man particularly amusing. He is clever with his tongue as well as his hands, and is remarkably well-mannered, although you will be astonished, perhaps, to learn that he is only a street performer. I ought not to have told you that until after you had seen him. However, my chief pleasure will be—and I am sure yours will be—in seeing how the children enjoy the magician’s wonders. Mr Tuppit tells me that he never has so much delight in his work as when he has an audience of young people. We have got the large dining-room for the performance, and it is likely to turn out a brilliant affair. You must stay.’ At the mention of the conjurer’s name, Wrentham made a curious movement, as if he had dropped something—it was only the ash of his cigar which had fallen on his sleeve. He dusted it into the fender. ‘I wish I could go into things of this sort like you,’ he said, smiling admiringly at Mr Beecham’s enthusiasm; ‘but I can’t. I don’t believe you could do it either, if you had heavy and anxious work on hand. But you belong to the lucky ones who have successfully passed the Rubicon of life. You have made your hay, and can amuse yourself without thinking about to-morrow. I am never allowed to get to-morrow out of my head.’ ‘Most people say that,’ was Mr Beecham’s response, with one of his quiet smiles; ‘and I always think it is because we waste to-day in thinking of to-morrow.’