Edward Henry nodded, his hands under his head as he lay on his back. He decided to leave all initiative to Joseph. The man drew up the blinds, and, closing the double windows at the top, opened them very wide at the bottom. "It is a rainy morning, sir," said Joseph, letting in vast quantities of air from Devonshire Square. Clearly, Sir Nicholas Winkworth had been a breezy master. "Oh!" murmured Edward Henry. He felt a careless contempt for Joseph’s flunkeyism. Hitherto he had had a theory that footmen, valets, and all male personal attendants were an inexcusable excrescence on the social fabric. The mere sight of them often angered him, though for some reason he had no objection whatever to servility in a nice-looking maid--indeed, rather enjoyed it. But now, in the person of Joseph, he saw that there were human or half-human beings born to self-abasement, and that, if their destiny was to be fulfilled, valetry was a necessary institution. He had no pity for Joseph, no shame in employing him. He scorned Joseph; and yet his desire, as a man about town, to keep Joseph’s esteem was in no way diminished. "Shall I prepare your bath, sir?" asked Joseph, stationed in a supple attitude by the side of the bed. Edward Henry was visited by an idea. "Have you had yours?" he demanded like a pistol-shot. Edward Henry saw that Sir Nicholas had never asked that particular question. "No, sir." "Not had your bath, man! What on earth do you mean by it? Go and have your bath at once!" A faint sycophantic smile lightened the amazed features of Joseph. And Edward Henry thought: "It’s astonishing, all the same, the way they can read their masters. This chap has seen already that I’m a card. And yet how?" "Yes, sir," said Joseph. "Have your bath in the bathroom here. And be sure to leave everything in order for me." "Yes, sir." As soon as Joseph had gone, Edward Henry jumped out of bed and listened. He heard the discreet Joseph respectfully push the bolt of the bathroom door. Then he crept with noiseless rapidity to the small bedroom, and was aware therein of a lack of order and of ventilation. The rich and distinguished overcoat was hanging on the brass knob at the foot of the bed. He seized it, and, scrutinizing the loop, read in yellow letters: _Quayther and Cuthering, 47 Vigo Street, W_. He knew that Quayther and Cuthering must be the tailors of Sir Nicholas Winkworth, and hence first-class. Hoping for the best, and putting his trust in the general decency of human nature, he did not trouble himself with the problem: was the overcoat a gift or an appropriation? But he preferred to assume the generosity of Sir Nicholas rather than the dishonesty of Joseph. Repassing the bathroom door, he knocked loudly on its glass. "Don’t be all day!" he cried. He was in a hurry now. An hour later he said to Joseph: "I’m going down to Quayther and Cuthering’s." "Yes, sir," said Joseph, obviously much reassured.