She muttered something, speedily interrupted by a cough; and he, not caring to catch her words, went on:-- “It is a politeness that cuts both ways, and makes _me_ as uncomfortable as him. This waistcoat has a beggarly account of empty button-holes; and as for my coat, nothing but a dim candle-light would screen its deficiencies. I was a fool to accept!” cried he, impatiently. “Don't go, Tom! don't go!” screamed the parrot, addressing him by a familiar sobriquet. “And why not, doctor?” said Layton, laughing at the apropos. “Don't go! don't go!” repeated the bird. “Give me your reasons, old boy, and not impossible is it I 'll agree with you. What do you say, Grace?” added he, advancing to the door of his room the better to catch her words. “It is to them the honor is _done_, not to you,” said she, faintly, and as though the speech cost her heavily. “Very hard to persuade the rector of that,--very hard to convince the man of silver side-dishes and cut decanters that he is not the patron of him who dines off Delf and drinks out of pewter. Is this cravat too ragged, Grace? I think I 'd better wear my black one.” “Yes, the black one,” said she, coughing painfully. “After all, it is no grand occasion,--a little party of four.” “What a swell! what a swell!” shrieked the parrot. “Ain't I? By Jove,” laughed Layton, “the doctor is marvellous in his remarks to-day.” “There, I have done my best with such scanty 'properties,'” said he, as he turned away from the glass. “The greatest peril to a shabby man is the self-imposed obligation to show he is better than he looks. It is an almost invariable blunder.” She muttered something inaudibly, and, as usual, he went on with his own thoughts. “One either assumes a more dictatorial tone, or takes more than his share of the talk, or is more apt to contradict the great man of the company,--at least _I_ do.” “Don't go, Tom! don't! don't!” called out Dr. Barret. “Not go?--after all these splendid preparations!” said Layton, with a laugh. “After yourself exclaiming, 'What a swell!'” “It 'll never pay,--never pay,--never pay!” croaked out Poll. “That I'm sure of, doctor. I never knew one of these politic things that did; but yet we go on through life practising them in the face of all their failure, dancing attendance at levées, loitering in antechambers, all to be remembered by some great man who is just as likely to hate the sight of us. However, this shall be my last transgression.”