Noll whipped round on his high stool, and was immediately engrossed in the heavy work of his office. “Come in!” cried Netherby Gomme. The door on to the landing was thrown open and revealed the figure of an elaborately dressed exquisite, who entered the room deliberately, diffusing scents--one of those well-polished, shining beings who never seem to catch a speck of dust. He had an hereditary qualification to pass for a gentleman--he knew how to dress for the part. He could strain good taste in adornment to the uttermost stretch without breaking it. He stood with the arrogant self-assurance that largely stands for good-breeding amongst the inane, and though the perfection of his clothes’ fit could not hide the fact that the lamp of intelligence burnt but gutteringly at the top where were his wits, he had the self-respect to ignore his defects. He looked calmly round the room, and, taking a card with deliberate coolness from a silver cardcase, he asked: “Will someone--ah--kindly give my card to--ah--that most comely young lady who--ah--has just come in?” Gomme walked over to him and took the card, which the exquisite held out to him between the first and second fingers of his lavender-gloved hand. “Will no one offer me a chair?” the affected voice asked plaintively. Gomme motioned him to a seat by the empty fireplace, and the other strolled thither and sat down on the edge of it with deliberate care. The seat was gone--a bristling hollow only left. He took off his hat and looked about the room with a cold, critical stare. Gomme took the card to Noll. “Mr. Ponsonby Wattles Ffolliott,” he read in a gruff whisper, handing the card to the youngster; and he added grimly: “Destiny was against the Thing from the beginning, Oliver. A man like that was bound to go on all fours and eat grass.” He raised his voice: “The editor’s room, please,” he said. And, as Noll scrambled down leisurely from his seat, the yellow-haired youth added under his breath solemnly: “Oliver, select the best office-broom, and as I cast him down the stairs, kindly crack the hero’s shins. It will confuse his retreat. War is an art--not a vulgar scrimmage.” Noll solemnly carried the card into the editor’s office. Gomme went to his seat, sat down, and aggressively paid no heed to the Thing. The exquisite became nettled. Said he affectedly: “That’s an awfully smart office-girl of yours----” Netherby Gomme rose slowly from his chair, and, walking over to him, stood and looked down at him with contempt. “Oh, you’re a judge!” said he--“a sort of overdressed Paris awarding the apple----” “Oh, no,” protested the exquisite Ponsonby Wattles Ffolliott; “you are quite mistaken. I have never been in Paris, and I’m not at all keen about apples.” Gomme laughed loud. Ponsonby Wattles Ffolliott fidgeted uneasily. “Are you the editor?” he asked. Gomme smiled. “No,” he said--and added drily: “Luckily for you.” “Why luck-i-ly?” Gomme coughed. “The editor kicks like a horse.”