"You poor old boob," said Trotter, laying his arm over Bramble's shoulder in the most affectionate way. "Isn't he a boob, Miss Emsdale?" "Not at all," said she severely. "He is a dear." "Bless my soul!" murmured Mr. Bramble, doing as well as could be expected. He blessed it again before he could catch himself up. "Sit here by the stove, Mr. de Bosky," said Miss Emsdale, a moment later. "Just as close as you can get to it." "I have but a moment to stay," said de Bosky, a wistful look in his dark eyes. "You'll have tea, de Bosky," said Mr. Bramble firmly. "Is the water boiling, Trotter?" A few minutes later, warmed by the cup of tea and a second slice of toast, de Bosky turned to Trotter. "Thanks again, my dear fellow, for speaking to your employer about my playing. This little affair tonight may be the beginning of an era of good fortune for me. I shall never forget your interest--" "Oh, that's off," said Trotter carelessly. "Off? You mean?" cried de Bosky. "I'm fired, and he has gone to Atlantic City for the week-end." "He--he isn't going to have his party in the private dining-room at,--you said it was to be a private dining-room, didn't you, with a few choice spirits--" "He has gone to Atlantic City with a few choice spirits," said Trotter, and then stared hard at the musician's face. "Oh, by Jove! I'm sorry," he cried, struck by the look of dismay, almost of desperation, in de Bosky's eyes. "I didn't realize it meant so much to--" "It is really of no consequence," said de Bosky, lifting his chin once more and straightening his back. The tea-cup rattled ominously in the saucer he was clutching with tense fingers. "Never mind," said Mr. Bramble, anticipating a crash and inspired by the kindliest of motives; "between us we've smashed half a dozen of them, so don't feel the least bit uncomfortable if you _do_ drop--" "What are you talking about, Bramby?" demanded Trotter, scowling at the unfortunate bookseller. "Have some more tea, de Bosky. Hand up your cup. Little hot water, eh?" Mr. Bramble was perspiring. Any one with half an eye could see that it _was_ of consequence to de Bosky. The old bookseller's heart was very tender. "Don't drink too much of it," he warned, his face suddenly beaming. "You'll spoil your appetite for dinner." To the others: "Mr. de Bosky honours my humble board with his presence this evening. The finest porterhouse steak in New York--Eh, what?"