“Thanks, no,” said Alistair, with easy indifference. “Time is of no consequence to me just now--I am a bankrupt.” He strolled out of the shop, charmed with his victory over the hateful traditions of hypocrisy and self-shame embodied in the pawnbroker. In his exhilaration he could have challenged the whole middle class. His spirits rose steadily as he came to the terminus, and he lavished half a crown on the porter who carried his light dressing-case to the railway-carriage. He found himself intruding on the privacy of a stout, vulgar-looking man of sixty or thereabouts, whose name was too freely displayed over all his belongings, from a giant portmanteau down to a rug-strap, to leave the least observant fellow-passenger ignorant of his identity. It was the great Sir Gilbert Lawthorn, whose discovery that pickles could be sold three-halfpence a bottle cheaper than the prevailing price, and still be made to yield a profit, had earned him seven hundred thousand pounds and a baronetcy. This great personage scowled on the inspector who admitted Stuart into his compartment, and then, after a scornful glance at the modest dressing-case, he remarked rudely: “I generally have a carriage reserved for me, but this time I thought no one would be in the train. Are you going far?” “I am going to Easterthorpe,” said Alistair, lowering a window. The pickle-seller gazed at him in displeasure. “I live there,” he announced, with conscious superiority. “My place is close to the Prince’s. I don’t think I have seen you in the neighbourhood.” “I am going down to stay with friends,” said Stuart carelessly, as he took up a paper. “Do your friends know the Prince?” Sir Gilbert inquired, with patronage. “He called on me last week.” Alistair lowered his paper and looked at the fat baronet over with unfeigned surprise. “I have not the honour of your acquaintance, sir,” he said deliberately, beginning to read again. “I am Sir Gilbert Lawthorn!” burst out the indignant magnate. “Thank you. Your pickles are excellent,” replied Alistair. And this time he was allowed to read his paper in peace. When the train stopped at Easterthorpe a groom in neat black livery appeared at the door of the carriage, and touched his hat. Sir Gilbert, who evidently recognized him, took the salute to himself. “His Royal Highness is not in here,” he proclaimed pompously. “Did you expect him by this train?” The groom, without replying, took the case which Lord Alistair passed out to him. “This way, my lord, if you please,” he said deferentially, as Alistair prepared to follow his luggage. The baronet turned crimson. “I--I beg your pardon,” he stammered awkwardly, half holding out his hand. “I had no idea that you were going to stay with the Prince.” But Alistair was not in a merciful mood as far as the middle class was concerned. “Who the devil do you suppose cares what you think, or who you are, or anything about you? I wish I had come third class.”