“She has, Mr Grant,” said Bingham, looking at the table with a sort of compassionate nervousness. “I am more pained than I can say by this dreadful calamity. It seems quite heart-rending that the thing should have happened just as we have decided to give your eminent friend a position which falls far short of his merits. As it is, of course--really, I don't know what to say. Professor Chadd may, of course, retain--I sincerely trust he will--his extraordinarily valuable intellect. But I am afraid--I am really afraid--that it would not do to have the curator of the Asiatic manuscripts--er--dancing about.” “I have a suggestion to make,” said Basil, and sat down abruptly in his chair, drawing it up to the table. “I am delighted, of course,” said the gentleman from the British Museum, coughing and drawing up his chair also. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked for just the moments required for Basil to clear his throat and collect his words, and then he said: “My proposal is this. I do not know that in the strict use of words you could altogether call it a compromise, still it has something of that character. My proposal is that the Government (acting, as I presume, through your Museum) should pay Professor Chadd £800 a year until he stops dancing.” “Eight hundred a year!” said Mr Bingham, and for the first time lifted his mild blue eyes to those of his interlocutor--and he raised them with a mild blue stare. “I think I have not quite understood you. Did I understand you to say that Professor Chadd ought to be employed, in his present state, in the Asiatic manuscript department at eight hundred a year?” Grant shook his head resolutely. “No,” he said firmly. “No. Chadd is a friend of mine, and I would say anything for him I could. But I do not say, I cannot say, that he ought to take on the Asiatic manuscripts. I do not go so far as that. I merely say that until he stops dancing you ought to pay him £800 Surely you have some general fund for the endowment of research.” Mr Bingham looked bewildered. “I really don't know,” he said, blinking his eyes, “what you are talking about. Do you ask us to give this obvious lunatic nearly a thousand a year for life?” “Not at all,” cried Basil, keenly and triumphantly. “I never said for life. Not at all.” “What for, then?” asked the meek Bingham, suppressing an instinct meekly to tear his hair. “How long is this endowment to run? Not till his death? Till the Judgement day?” “No,” said Basil, beaming, “but just what I said. Till he has stopped dancing.” And he lay back with satisfaction and his hands in his pockets. Bingham had by this time fastened his eyes keenly on Basil Grant and kept them there.