“Oh, ah, yes.... Well, my verse is sunk to the honour of neglect--which is not a matter wholly wanting in subtle flattery, since all the clever young men tell me it is the reward of true poetry. But--here’s food!” he cried, as the door opened and the butler entered, carrying a tray, well laden: “Here’s food--so poetry go hang!” He seized the carving-knife almost before Dukes had set down the tray; and the austere servant took up the other discarded empty tray and softly withdrew from the room. “A most radiant fowl!” cried Anthony, carving it with swift precision.... “I say, Paul--you won’t mind my taking the wings in my pocket for the youngster--he’s been a little sickly of late!” He carved off the wings and breast, and his searching glance fell on a large handsome quarto that lay upon the throne by his side. “Hullo!” said he--“a large-paper edition!” He turned it over and saw that it was verse. “What idiot has been writing verses now?” Pangbutt smiled: “That’s a volume of collected poems by Sir Gilders Persimmon,” he said. “Indecent old thing!... May I have the fly-leaf for the chicken?” Pangbutt almost put out his hand in panic, fearing sacrilege; but he said instead, rather stiffly: “It is an autograph copy from my friend, Sir Gilders Persimmon; and----” “Yes, yes--quite so. It’s luxury to write poetry when you’re rich,” he said--“poetry should be handsomely treated.” “Ah, Anthony--we scoff at riches----” “Who scoffs at riches?” Anthony looked up sharply. “We all sneer at times.” Anthony laughed: “They don’t trouble _my_ sleep much--not half so much as the lack of them.” Pangbutt smiled drily: “Well,” said he--“you confess by insinuation that it’s very pleasant to be even so discredited a thing as a millionaire?” “I don’t know, Paul. I don’t call on ’em. When all’s said, they are no worse than the folk who do call on ’em. The rich man, too, stands before his abysses--he has his blood-curdlings like the poorest.... There are honest men and dishonest, even amongst the rich. Look at your speculative millionaire--your mighty company-promoter! He don’t sleep too well, thank God; but look at him.... To-day, society is licking his boots--licking them, Paul--for who so sublime a boot-licker as your hereditary flunkey of the Court? To-morrow---- Hang it, I’m talking like a curate.” He laughed. “I always gabble of millionaires in my sleep when the landlady is pressing for the rent.” Pangbutt shrugged his shoulders: “Nevertheless,” said he--“there’s something rather wonderful about a millionaire.” “A very proper and right sentiment, Paul! Of course, a millionaire is a colossal article of commerce. Bigness appeals to the imagination. So a school-boy looks at a bishop and thinks the works of God are very wonderful.... But riches are comparative--there’s a millionaire who cannot buy a digestion. Give me a competency----” Pangbutt’s lip curled: “How much is a competency?” he asked. “H’m--well----” He stood up suddenly, listening.