“With all the pleasure in life,” pursued the lady serenely, “though perhaps it isn’t quite in harmony with ducal manners to say so in the presence of a lady. But that’s the position you offer me—the wife of a junior partner, whose senior is, I understand, the guest of an Archdeacon, and is, you imagine, basking in the smiles of the Archdeacon’s daughter. I suppose I should be expected to take up the _role_ of a junior partner’s wife, to receive an occasional invitation to dinner when no one else in particular was invited, to be on visiting terms with the managing clerk and his lady, and to be humbly thankful when my partner’s wife acknowledged me in New Street. No thank you, Mr. Storth, it isn’t good enough.” “Is that your final word?” asked Storth, savagely. “No, it isn’t, and you needn’t glare at me like that. I’m not in the witness box, and, if I were, I shouldn’t be afraid of _you_. It isn’t my final word. If you want me you must win me.” “How?” interjected Sam, eagerly. “Only show me how.” “Cease to be a junior partner, and if, in doing so, you humble your Mr. Edward Beaumont to the dust, I shall be none the less pleased on that account. Make a position that is your own. I know you’ve brains. Perhaps not of the highest order, but still good enough for the work you have to do. Use them to lift you up from the shadow by which you are now obscured, the shadow of another man’s personality. And then come to me. And, meanwhile, don’t forget what I said about your precious Mr. Edward Beaumont.” “Then it’s a promise, Amelia?” asked Storth eagerly, his face lit up with the joy of triumph.” “It’s what I think you lawyers would call a conditional promise. You keep your part of the bargain, Sam, and I’ll keep mine. There, that’ll do. I’m not fond of those demonstrations, and I don’t like the smell of beer. You’ll have to take to claret—some day.” “And that day isn’t far off, you bet, Amelia. I’m not too fond of Mr. Edward Beaumont, as you call him, myself; and I’ll be no more sorry than yourself to see my lord taught a lesson he badly needs. Well what is it, Ainley?”—this to one of the clerks of his firm who was heard inquiring if Mr. Storth was about. “Mr. Schofield would like to see you, sir.” “Pat as the heft to the blade,” exclaimed Storth. “I’ll tell you some day what I mean,” he added, as he hastily drained his pewter, wiped his lips and nodded his adieus to Miss Wrigley.