"By Jove! I shall be late. I am always late, my dear chap; it partly accounts for my extraordinary popularity. A hostess is so relieved to see me by the time I turn up that for years afterwards she associates my face with pleasant sensations. Any mail, Sylvester?" His servant crossed to the table, on which there reposed four letters. "These came in this afternoon, sir." "Read them to me while I dress." "Read them, Mr. Montague?" The valet's face was a study of respectful expostulation. "Is the idea so preposterous, my dear fellow? I believe most people write letters with the idea of having them read." The decorous Sylvester sighed, and broke the seal of the first letter. "I would beg to remind you," he read, "that your account----" Montague made a deprecatory gesture. "How polite these trades-people are!" he said. "I shall expect one some day to enclose forget-me-nots. The next letter?" Sylvester solemnly opened a diminutive envelope. "Mrs. W. De-Ponsy Harris requests the pleasure----" "Another request! What is it--a tea or a dance?" "A dinner, sir." "Good! I shall go. Mrs. Harris is the worst hostess in the city, but she keeps the best cook. Proceed." The worthy Sylvester took from the table a delicately scented letter that breathed its delightful suggestion of romance to his grateful nostrils, whereupon he promptly blushed a deep, unlovely, tomato-like red. "It starts," said he, "'My Dearest Love----'" His master glanced at him. "Don't blush," he said. "The _grande passion_ is nothing to be ashamed of." He carefully adjusted his tie. "What is the young lady's name?" "Myrtle, sir." "Ah, yes; poor little Myrtle! What a pity a woman clings to a romance that is dead. There is something morbid in women that makes them do it. It is like embracing a corpse." "Shall I read it, sir?" "No, no; don't bother. I know what is in it. On the third page she declares she hates me, and on the fifth she denies it. Myrtle runs so deucedly to form." A look of relief crossed the rotund countenance of Mr. Sylvester as he took up the last letter. "It's from a society for educating the poor, sir." "Tear it up. What we need is a society for educating the rich." Completely dressed, Montague turned round and struck an attitude. "It is my intention some day," he said with mock airiness, "to found a _Conservatoire Universelle_, where philanthropists will be taught charity, ministers of the gospel gain humility, musicians learn to feel, and newspaper writers take up the elements of language. Heavens! such scope as I should have! Stick your head out of the window and see if a taxi is waiting." Sylvester raised the window and surveyed the street below. "It's there, sir," he said, drawing his head in. "Then I shall leave you. Mrs. Le Roy is giving a dinner-party this evening, and she invariably has guests who listen charmingly. Good-night, Sylvester." "Good-night, sir."