"'Inconvenienced' is a good word," Ellen remarked. "I've managed to pay my way till now, thank you. What I came up to know about is this!" she went on, producing a copy of the Daily Press from her reticule and smoothing it out on her knee. Burton groaned. He looked anxiously at Mr. Waddington. "Have you read it, sir?" he asked. Mr. Waddington shook his head. "I make it a rule," he said, "to avoid the advertisement columns of all newspapers. These skilfully worded announcements only serve to remind us how a man may prostitute an aptitude, if not an art, for sheer purposes of gain. It is my theory, Mrs. Burton," he went on, addressing her, "that no one has a right to use his peculiar capacities for the production of any sort of work which is in the least unworthy; which does not aim--you follow me, I am sure?--at the ideal." Ellen stared at him for a moment. "I don't follow you," she declared, brusquely, "and I don't know as I want to. About that advertisement, is it you, Alfred, who's to be one of the directors of this Menatogen or whatever they call it? Are they your experiences that are given here?" "They are!" Burton groaned. Mr. Waddington, with a heavy frown, took the paper. "What is this, Burton?" he demanded. "You had better read it," Burton replied, sinking into a chair. "I mentioned it to you a little time ago. You see, the scheme has finally come to fruition." Mr. Waddington read the advertisement through, word by word. One gathered that the greatest discovery for many thousands of years would shortly be announced to the world. A certified and unfailing tonic for the moral system was shortly to be placed upon the market. A large factory had been engaged for the manufacture of the new commodity, and distributing warehouses in a central neighborhood. First come, first served. Ten and sixpence a jar. The paper fluttered out of Mr. Waddington's fingers. He looked across at Burton. Burton sank forward in his chair, his head fell into his hands. "What I want to know," Ellen continued, in a tone of some excitement, "is--what is there coming to us for this? I never did give you credit, Alfred--not in these days, at any rate--for so much common sense. I see they have made you a director. If there's anything in those rotten beans of yours, you've more in your head than I thought, to be trying to make a bit of use of them. What are you getting out of it?" There was a dead silence. Mr. Waddington had the appearance of a man who has received a shock. Burton withdrew his hands from before his face. He was looking pale and miserable. "I am getting money," he admitted slowly. "I am getting a great deal of money." Ellen nodded. Her face betokened the liveliest interest. Mr. Waddington sat like a musician listening to an ill-played rendering of his favorite melody. Burton thrust his hand into his pocket.