"Max, my boy! Look at that!" cried the old man, clearing his throat. "What d’ye think of Papa now, eh?" He rose, chuckled violently and rattled his golden watch-chain. Max took the card and read it. It was an invitation to dine with the Lord Mayor and some representatives of commercial houses. He felt a twinge of envy, and then of pride. "Bravo, Dad!" said the son. They shook hands solemnly. "It’th to-night, too!" "Yeth," said Emmanuel, taking the invitation and frowning at it. "Thoth idioth at the potht-offith nearly mitht my thecuring thith ’igh honour. ’Ere’s the envelope. Look at the thtamp. Pothted a week ago, and I only got it to-day. Put in the wrong letter-box. I’ve written to the Potht-mathter-General to complain. A ’ot and strong letter I’ve written. Very nice of the Lord Mayor, ain’t it?" "’Ow did you get it, Dad?" "Lord knowth! I lent one of ’is footmen money. P’raps that ’elped!" "’Ave you accepted? You mutht, you know!" "Twice; to make sure, I sent two letterth by expreth, from different poth-offithes." "My word, Dad, you are spendin’. That’th what I call extravaganth." "No, my boy, you muthn’t look at the pennieth when there’th a twenty-bob dinner in store. That’th policy and busineth too. You can’t teach Papa nothin’, you can’t! Now, ’ow are things?" They talked of clothes, market-prices and details of their trade for a couple of hours, while June listened and wondered. How these mortals did waste their time over the wealth which isn’t worth having! She made up her mind to go to the banquet at the Mansion House. When the office-clock chinkled five the elder Oldstein looked at his watch to confirm the news, and hurriedly put away his papers. "I mutht be off to dreth," he said to his son. "I’m going’ to ’ave a bath." He went, June after him. He drove westward in a slow omnibus. The fairy sat on his knee, and, looking about her, felt disappointed with civilization. At length they stopped by Maida Vale, and the wholesale clothier having ridden his full three-pennyworth, waddled down two streets and arrived at his dwelling. It was one of a row of buildings, mostly boarding-houses, in their dull unornamental dinginess strangely similar to each other. They were Mid-Victorian--the Drab Age!--and looked it from boot-scraper to roof-tree. Oldstein’s private residence, like his business house, seemed in dire need of paint. What the household could do was done. What they could not do must be done without. "Wathte of good money, my boy;" and then, "Next year, per’aps." And so on, season after season, year after year. Like Alice’s to-morrow, the Oldstein next-year never came. The clothier and his family lived at forty-eight. The next house was number fifty. The two front-doors were immediately adjacent, the entrances separated by a row of rusty railings.