"They wouldn't say anything," said Mr. Bailey, "they never do say anything, and it has its advantages, you know: a friend's a friend and an enemy's an enemy; he's dreadfully sore just now. Besides which, what harm does it do a soul to give the poor chap a hoist? What harm did it do any mortal soul even when the Peabody Yid bought his peerage? And _he_ bought the right to make interminable speeches with a lisp. I remember your father about him years ago: he was a godsend to your father in the Lords; your father could do the Yid better than any one in London." Mr. William Bailey indulged in an imitation of the lisp, and the Prime Minister, who also remembered his father's intense amusement, was melted to another smile. He half gave way. "The trouble is to find the recognition, you know," he said, "'in recognition'--in recognition of what? It's like the despatches from South Africa when they had to stick in every man Jack of them, or never dine again. But it's easier to give a D.S.O. because the public aren't there looking on. What the devil has old Clutterbuck ever done?" "Oh," said Mr. Bailey gaily, "he declared strongly against allowing the fall in Consols to go on, and in favour of a large gold reserve, and one or two other things." Mr. Bailey looked the Prime Minister straight in the eye, and the Prime Minister's eye fell. He took a pen and began drawing on the blotting-paper before him. "Do suggest something," he murmured. There was a long silence. "In recognition of his active services and labours in connection with the Royal Caterham Valley Institute," said Mr. Bailey at last. "What on earth's that?" asked the Prime Minister, looking up blankly. "We--ll, it doesn't exist--yet," said William Bailey, "but it will, you know, it will." "I don't mind," said the Prime Minister wearily, "but it can't be before Easter." "Well, now I'll tell you," said William Bailey by way of finale; "you write me a little note so that the poor fellow can be certain of Empire Day, and you will have done a really good deed." "I can trust you, Bill?" said the young man anxiously. (How human they are!) "Oh yes," said Mr. Bailey, "I'll give you a hostage." He wrote out a few words on a slip of paper, signed it, and handed it over to his relative. The Prime Minister took it with a funny little laugh and threw it into the fire. "Don't be a fool, Bill," he said. "Of course I can trust you." He wrote on a sheet of notepaper: "My dear Mr. Bailey, "_I can well understand, but, as you will easily see, it is impossible before Empire Day. I have, however, received commands upon the matter with regard to that date, and I trust Mr.---- _" "Empire Day's in the season, isn't it?" he added anxiously. "At the beginning of the season," replied William Bailey solemnly, "just before the middle class begin marrying into the plutocracy."