At that moment the footman entered the room and said there was a gentleman downstairs who wished to speak with her. “What is his name?” asked Mrs. Bergmann. The footman said he had not caught the gentleman’s name, and he handed her a card on a tray. She took the card. On it was written:-- MR. NICHOLAS L. SATAN, I, Pandemonium Terrace, BURNING MARLE, HELL. Telephone, No. I Central. “Show him up,” said Mrs. Bergmann, quite naturally, as though she had been expecting the visitor. She wondered at her own behaviour, and seemed to herself to be acting inevitably, as one does in dreams. Mr. Satan was shown in. He had a professional air about him, but not of the kind that suggests needy or even learned professionalism. He was dark; his features were sharp and regular, his eyes keen, his complexion pale, his mouth vigorous, and his chin prominent. He was well dressed in a frock coat, black tie, and patent leather boots. He would never have been taken for a conjurer or a shop-walker, but he might have been taken for a slightly depraved Art-photographer who had known better days. He sat down near the tea-table opposite Mrs. Bergmann, holding his top hat, which had a slight mourning band round it, in his hand. “I understand, madam,” he spoke with an even American intonation, “you wish to be supplied with a guest who will make all other luncheon-parties look, so to speak, like thirty cents.” “Yes, that is just what I want,” answered Mrs. Bergmann, who continued to be surprised at herself. “Well, I reckon there’s no one living who’d suit,” said Mr. Satan, “and I’d better supply you with a celebrity of _a_ former generation.” He then took out a small pocket-book from his coat pocket, and quickly turning over its leaves he asked in a monotonous tone: “Would you like a Philosopher? Anaxagoras, Aristotle, Aurelius, M.?” “Oh! no,” answered Mrs. Bergmann with decision, “they would ruin any luncheon.” “A Saint?” suggested Mr. Satan, “Antony, Ditto of Padua, Athanasius, Augustine, Anselm?” “Good heavens, no,” said Mrs. Bergmann. “A Theologian, good arguer?” asked Mr. Satan, “Aquinas, T?” “No,” interrupted Mrs. Bergmann, “for heaven’s sake don’t always give me the A’s, or we shall never get on to anything. You’ll be offering me Adam and Abel next.” “I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Satan, “Latimer, Laud--Historic Interest, Church and Politics combined,” he added quickly. “I don’t want a clergyman,” said Mrs. Bergmann. “Artist?” said Mr. Satan, “Andrea del Sarto, Angelo, M., Apelles?” “You’re going back to the A’s,” interrupted Mrs. Bergmann. “Bellini, Benvenuto Cellini, Botticelli?” he continued imperturbably. “What’s the use of them when I can get Sargent every day?” asked Mrs. Bergmann. “A man of action, perhaps? Alexander, Bonaparte, Caesar, J., Cromwell, O., Hannibal?” “Too heavy for luncheon,” she answered, “they would do for _dinner_.” “Plain statesman? Bismarck, Count; Chatham, Lord; Franklin, B; Richelieu, Cardinal.”