For the first time for at least a year Mr. Fétis had failed in his morning duties at Mr. Topsparkle's toilet. He had come home from his evening entertainment very ill, and he was no better this morning; so Madame had been obliged to send a little note of apology to Soho Square, a missive composed in equal parts of French and English, with an impartial measure of bad spelling in both languages. Madame's apartment was a small front parlour, close to the street door. From her window she could survey an approaching visitor, while from her door she could overhear any conversation that was carried on in the passage, and keep herself informed as to every one who went out or came in. It was the spider's little parlour into which many a giddy buzzing fly had fluttered unwarily, to emerge with clipped wings. It was Circe's cave; and the bones of innumerable victims lay bleaching there, from a metaphorical point of view. To-day Madame Fétis was so deeply absorbed in the addition of that long column of figures that she was less on the alert than usual for external sounds, and she was surprised by the setting down of a sedan in front of her door, and within three feet of her window. It was a private sedan, painted and fitted with that studied simplicity which indicated distinction in the owner. The panels were a dark brown, the armorial bearings were unobtrusive--all was dark, plain, sober in style. Madame Fétis had not time to wonder, for the orange and brown liveries of the footmen who preceded the vehicle informed her that the chair could belong to no less important a person than her husband's patron and quasi-master, the rich Mr. Topsparkle; and the little Frenchwoman's heart fluttered with gratified vanity at the idea that her fascinations had brought Mr. Topsparkle to her husband's house, which he had never visited before. "The powdered pert proficient in the art" of disturbing a whole street by his performance on the knocker now proceeded to startle the midday quiet by a most prodigious fantasia in iron. Madame flew to open the door, and stood smiling and curtseying as Mr. Topsparkle descended from his chair, treading delicately, like the ladies of ancient Jerusalem. "Dear Madam, you do me too much honour," he protested, as he entered the panneled passage, bringing a cloud of perfumed powder and an overpowering odour of attar of roses into the semi-darkness of the narrow entry. "It is not often that Cerberus is replaced by Hebe." "My servants are so lazy, your honour," apologised Madame; "our Cerberus is cleaning the shoes in his morning sleep, and my _femme de chambre_ has scarce made up her mind whether the broom she is using is a dream or a reality. If your honour will be so condescending as to step into the parlour--" "One moment, madam," said Topsparkle, and then turning to the open door he waved his hand to the footmen. "You can take my chair home, you fellows. I shall walk."