"Better keep away," said Helen. "When Roger comes home from those places he smells so strong of onions it brings tears to my eyes." "We've just been talking about an assistant chef," said Roger; "that suggests that I read you Somebody's Luggage, which is all about a head waiter. I have often wished I could get a job as a waiter or a bus boy, just to learn if there really are any such head waiters nowadays. You know there are all sorts of jobs I'd like to have, just to fructify my knowledge of human nature and find out whether life is really as good as literature. I'd love to be a waiter, a barber, a floorwalker----" "Roger, my dear," said Helen, "why don't you get on with the reading?" Roger knocked out his pipe, turned Bock out of his chair, and sat down with infinite relish to read the memorable character sketch of Christopher, the head waiter, which is dear to every lover of taverns. "The writer of these humble lines being a Waiter," he began. The knitting needles flashed with diligence, and the dog by the fender stretched himself out in the luxuriant vacancy of mind only known to dogs surrounded by a happy group of their friends. And Roger, enjoying himself enormously, and particularly pleased by the chuckles of his audience, was approaching the ever-delightful items of the coffee-room bill which is to be found about ten pages on in the first chapter--how sad it is that hotel bills are not so rendered in these times--when the bell in the shop clanged. Picking up his pipe and matchbox, and grumbling "It's always the way," he hurried out of the room. He was agreeably surprised to find that his caller was the young advertising man, Aubrey Gilbert. "Hullo!" he said. "I've been saving something for you. It's a quotation from Joseph Conrad about advertising." "Good enough," said Aubrey. "And I've got something for you. You were so nice to me the other evening I took the liberty of bringing you round some tobacco. Here's a tin of Blue-Eyed Mixture, it's my favourite. I hope you'll like it." "Bully for you. Perhaps I ought to let you off the Conrad quotation since you're so kind." "Not a bit. I suppose it's a knock. Shoot!" The bookseller led the way back to his desk, where he rummaged among the litter and finally found a scrap of paper on which he had written: Being myself animated by feelings of affection toward my fellowmen, I am saddened by the modern system of advertising. Whatever evidence it offers of enterprise, ingenuity, impudence, and resource in certain individuals, it proves to my mind the wide prevalence of that form of mental degradation which is called gullibility. JOSEPH CONRAD. "What do you think of that?" said Roger. "You'll find that in the story called The Anarchist."