It proved a relation which, while pleasant, was of short duration. Sam’l was neglecting his operatic interests at the time in favour of interpretative dancing, and his habit of constant practise in kitchen and basement not only bade fair to disrupt our domestic arrangements, but even to endanger the foundations of the house. At all hours of the day and some of the night there was to be felt a certain measured vibration in the atmosphere, accompanied by a slight warning rattle of chandeliers and crockery. We might have ignored this growing menace in the interests of friendship, but that one day my husband happened to observe our houseman going off for a holiday sporting golf tweeds and stockings whose vivid pattern was unmistakable. Sam’l, as Aunt Lady had forewarned us, was merely borrowing these articles, and had every intention of returning them to my husband’s closet at the first favourable opportunity; but husbands have their little crotchets. I parted with Sam’l, to our mutual regret. He bore no hard feelings, confessing that he was really on his gradual way northward to join some influential acquaintances he had made during his military career. We were, it appeared, merely a stepping stone, albeit an honoured and a valued stepping stone, upon his upward progress. That should by all rights have been the end of Sam’l so far as we were concerned, for when Negroes go North they are usually lost to us. But some years later a visitor was announced, who had sent up no card. “Leastways he _tried_ to gimme a card,” bridled the housemaid, giggling, “but I never took’n it off him.” The drawing room was empty. I asked where she had put the caller. “In the kitchen, whar he belongs at!” was the emphatic response. The prodigal had returned, but a metamorphosed, almost an unrecognizable prodigal. He had grown a neat little shoebrush moustache (in itself quite a feat for a coloured man); he wore an extremely well-tailored cutaway, mouse-coloured trousers and gloves to match, immaculate white spats, and a gardenia in his buttonhole. His manner was even more of a metamorphosis; it had become as simple as his appearance was elaborate; crisp, clear, decisive, very much the manner, in fact, of my husband closing up a business deal. Sam’l invariably profited by his contacts. “I shall not take up mo’ than a moment of yore vallyble time, Madam” (pronounced in plain American now), “but I have come to tender you and His Honour some free tickets for the performance to-morrow night. I also mailed free tickets,” he added, “to Doctor and Miss Lady Curtis, and I took’n the libbuty to suggest that they better come and stay with you-all for the event.” “Quite right, Sam’l; I’m glad you did,” I murmured, rather dazed, “but what is the event?”