“Fine day!” he muttered. He had a sort of subconscious feeling that it was imperative to keep engaging Webster in light conversation. “Yes, sir. Weather still keeps up,” agreed the valet suavely. Sam frowned over the note. He felt injured. Sending a fellow notes didn’t give him a chance. If she had come in person and denounced him it would not have been an agreeable experience, but at least it would have been possible then to have pleaded and cajoled and—and all that sort of thing. But what could he do now? It seemed to him that his only possible course was to write a note in reply, begging her to see him. He explored his pockets and found a pencil and a scrap of paper. For some moments he scribbled desperately. Then he folded the note. “Will you take this to Miss Bennett?” he said, holding it out. Webster took the missive, because he wanted to read it later at his leisure; but he shook his head. “Useless, I fear, sir,” he said gravely. “What do you mean?” “I am afraid it would effect little or nothing, sir, sending our Miss B. notes. She is not in the proper frame of mind to appreciate them. I saw her face when she handed me the letter you have just read, and I assure you, sir, she is not in a malleable mood.” “You seem to know a lot about it!” “I have studied the sex, sir,” said Webster modestly. “I mean, about my business, confound it! You seem to know all about it!” “Why, yes, sir, I think I may say that I have grasped the position of affairs. And, if you will permit me to say so, sir, you have my respectful sympathy.” Dignity is a sensitive plant which nourishes only under the fairest conditions. Sam’s had perished in the bleak east wind of Billie’s note. In other circumstances he might have resented this intrusion of a stranger into his most intimate concerns. His only emotion now, was one of dull but distinct gratitude. The four winds of Heaven blew chilly upon his raw and unprotected soul, and he wanted to wrap it up in a mantle of sympathy, careless of the source from which he borrowed that mantle. If Webster felt disposed, as he seemed to indicate, to comfort him, let the thing go on. At that moment Sam would have accepted condolences from a coal-heaver. “I was reading a story—one of the Nosegay Novelettes; I do not know if you are familiar with the series, sir?—in which much the same situation occurred. It was entitled ‘Cupid or Mammon.’ The heroine, Lady Blanche Trefusis, forced by her parents to wed a wealthy suitor, despatches a note to her humble lover, informing him it cannot be. I believe it often happens like that, sir.” “You’re all wrong,” said Sam. “It’s not that at all.” “Indeed, sir? I supposed it was.” “Nothing like it! I—I——.” Sam’s dignity, on its death-bed, made a last effort to assert itself. “I don’t know what it’s got to do with you!” “Precisely, sir!” said Webster, with dignity. “Just as you say! Good afternoon, sir!”