“Philip,” said Ethel, rising and looking at me with a vexed expression, “I wish you had more dignity. I’ll go out and tell James that you wish to speak to him.” “Not at all,” said I. “What! You go out and tell him? Wait. Sit where you are, and all will be well.” I was beginning to feel in holiday mood, for I was sure that I had struck on an arrangement that would tide us over at least a fortnight. I went out to the kitchen. “Minerva,” said I, “Mrs. Vernon would like to speak to you.” I then went back to Ethel and said, “I have asked Minerva to come. When she comes, tell her to send James. We will do this thing in style while we are about it.” Minerva came in, her face all smiles. “Minerva, ask your friend James to come out,” said Ethel. “Mr. Vernon wishes to speak to him.” “That’s it! That’s _style_!” said I, as soon as Minerva had gone. “Now is our dignity preserved, and James feels that he has fallen among people who know what’s what. Do you want to be present at this interview?” Ethel decided that she did not, and went into the parlour as James came out of the kitchen. “Did you want to speak to me, sir?” said James respectfully. “Yes, James. What is your last name?” “Mars. James Montgomery Mars.” “Minerva tells me, James, that you are looking for work.” “Yes, sir; for congenial work.” “Would singing be congenial work?” “Singing’s a pleasure, sir. It ain’t work.” “I’ve been thinking,” said I, “that what this section needed was a concert for the benefit of something. Now, Mrs. Vernon likes to make other people happy, and while we were listening to you and Minerva sing, it struck us both that a concert of old plantation melodies like those you could sing, would be well received, say at the Congregational Church at Egerton. I would pay you a coachman’s wages for staying here and practising, but all the money taken in would go to—” “The Hurlbert Hospital. That’s what they always do with the money up here, sir.” “Oh, I see, like the Liverpool Sailors’ Home.” He did not understand my allusion, but I did not explain. Allusions that are explained lose half their charm. “What do you think of the idea?” “I think it’s all right, sir. But between singing what would I do?” “Do you love nature?” “I don’t know’s I know what you intend to mean, sir.” “Does it make you happy to be out doors?” “Oh, sure. I’m an out-door boy, all right.” “Well, Mrs. Vernon, in her desire to benefit humanity—You understand me, James?” “Oh, I get the words all right. I don’t rightly see your drift.”