“Oliver,” said he, with biting distinctness, “we have not yet shown the resentment that your vulgarity courts; but we would remind you that we may be goaded into flinging the office ink-pot----” He stretched out his long arm towards the large zinc well of ink before him. Noll slid off the stool, putting it between them with the swift and calculated strategy of experience, guarding his head with his raised elbow: “Chuck it, Netherby!” he bawled, dodging under cover of his desk warily; and he added in a hoarse aside, jerking his thumb towards the editor’s door: “Chuck it! I withdraw.” The yellow-haired youth put down the heavy ink-pot. Noll saw out of the corner of his alert eye that honour was satisfied, and as he ran his finger pensively down a large splash of ink that had dried on the wall beside his desk, he asked: “Well?... About that confidence!” Netherby Gomme cleared his throat: “Now, Oliver, don’t say anything about this to anyone. It might make me so ridiculous, and--professional humorists are keenly sensitive to ridicule----” “Lor!” said Noll, leaving the patch on the wall. “Get on.” “This is in strict confidence, Noll.” “Oh, it’s Julia all right enough,” growled Noll. Gomme went on, ignoring the comment: “Noll, it is one of the penalties of fame that its victims must appear in the brilliant world of fashion.” He coughed. “Come here, Noll.” He unlocked and pulled open the drawer before him, and Noll, aroused to sudden interest, sidled over to him as he brought out from the drawer a very carefully folded dress-coat. “Oliver, I’ve got a dress-coat. You see, I may have to go into society at any moment, now that my book has caught the public eye.” Noll put out his hand: “Let’s look at the thing,” said he eagerly. Gomme caught his arm and kept him off it: “Careful, Noll!” he gasped anxiously--“gently! or we shan’t get it back into its folds.” He put it away carefully, locked it up, and, sitting back in his chair, he added gravely: “Now, Noll, as one who has knowledge of the usages of polite society----” “Eh?” said Noll. Gomme touched him on the shoulder nervously. “No, no, Noll--I’m not accusing you of practising them. But as one born within the pale of good society--from no fault of your own, I admit--ought one to put scent on the coat?” Noll whistled: “Je--hoshaphat!” said he, “I never noticed.” He pushed his hat back on his head, thrust his hands deep into his breeches pockets, and fixed a searching eye on experience: “I’m not sure. N-no--I don’t think so. The governor doesn’t.” The yellow-haired youth shook his head solemnly: “It’s a most awkward point, Oliver--a most awkward point--and somewhat momentous.... One’s first step at the threshold of a career should not be a stumble.” Noll’s face lighted up with a suggestion: “Tell you what I should do, Netherby. Just scent your handkerchief; and if it kicks up a beastly lot of notice and makes you uncomfortable, you can always get rid of it----”