“As a Member of Parliament,” began Mr. Chiswell, “Freddy was not what the world might call a roaring success. Used to take a lot of trouble, and the Duke, his old father, was always getting at him, and asking when he was going to be asked to join the Cabinet. As a matter of fact, his speeches sounded all right when he said ’em off to me in Curzon Street, but apparently when he tried ’em in the House they didn’t go for nuts. I never went down there to hear him—got too much respect for myself to go near the place—but I always read the Parliamentary reports, and there, when he did get the chance of speaking, the papers mentioned his name amongst the ‘Also spokes,’ and that was about all. Whatever faults he may have had as a Member of Parliament, he was, and he is, a first-class chap to valet, and I don’t care”—Mr. Chiswell gave a resolute gesture—“I don’t care where the next comes from. I’ve only to say one word against a suit of clothes, and that suit of clothes is virtually handed over to me on the spot. I know to a penny what his income is, and I know to a penny what his expenses amount to. A peculiar chap, mind you, in some ways; never able, for instance, to bear the idea of being in debt. Most extraordinary, with people of his class.” Chiswell dismissed this problem. “Now you must understand—you know me well enough to realise it—that I’m not one of those who want to be always chopping and changing. If I’m in a nice comfortable easy-chair like this, I’m not the kind of chap to give it up, and go and sit out there in the corridor on a tip-up wooden seat. I’m the sort that—” “Leave off bragging as soon as you’re tired,” suggested Miss Everitt, “and get on with your story.” The young man, an elbow resting on the ledge of the window, and giving no attention to the scenery which flew past, with a straight road curling up like a length of white ribbon, applied himself to the task of describing the course of procedure adopted. The girl gave now and again a cough of criticism, here and there a slightly astonished lift of the eyebrows. Occasionally she sniffed at a bottle of Eau de Cologne with the air—obviously copied from some superior model—the air of having temporarily lost interest in the subject. Stated with a brevity that Chiswell, the day before him and personal exultation behind, could not be induced to show, the particulars might be fairly stated thus. Chiswell— “Mind you,” he said firmly, “no one can call me a Paul Pryer. I look after myself; I don’t profess to look after others.”