Mr. Dodson’s official duties should have led him there and then into the counting-house of Crumpett and Hawker; but as he stood to watch the small but stout, erect, and prosperous form of Mr. G. Eliot Davis saunter out of the front entrance of No. 24 Trafalgar Square, an idea flashed across that Napoleonic brain. Therefore, instead of returning to admonish William Jordan, Junior, for omitting to inscribe the courtesy prefix to the name of a peer’s daughter in returning the manuscript copy of her verses, Mr. Dodson also sauntered forth of No. 24 Trafalgar Square. He turned the first corner and entered the refreshment buffet of the Brontë Hotel. Presiding over that hall of public entertainment was the lady of the scarlet blouse and yellow earrings. This afternoon the blouse was heliotrope, and she wore no earrings. “Chrissie,” said Mr. Dodson, “I want something to pull me together. It must be up to proof, but it must leave no odour.” “I always say you can’t do better than brandy,” said Chrissie, with the assured yet quiet air of the unmistakable expert. “Of course, some prefer a John Collins, or an American, or a Dog Toby, but I am not partial to so much fancy work myself.” “Same here,” said Mr. Dodson. “But there must be no odour--none whatever.” “You shall have a toothful of the Waterloo, as your face seems familiar,” said Chrissie benignly. “You are a good sort, Chrissie,” said Mr. Dodson, with a small display of emotion that became him perfectly. “I shall not forget you.” “My size is nine and a quarter,” said the lady, as with extreme precision she measured out a small quantity of a curiously-coloured liquid from a very mysterious-looking bottle. “Jimmy, I must say you do look a bit below yourself. Has the moon come up yet?” “Not yet,” said Mr. Dodson in a tone of amiable deprecation. He was greatly indebted to the kindness of the lady in the heliotrope blouse, but her question was alien to his dignity, as was also the situation in which he found himself. Even at this period of his career all those attributes were clearly developed which in after years brought him so much distinction in political life. “Well, if you will smoke El Destinkers at one and fourpence a hundred,” said the lady in the heliotrope blouse. “Chrissie,” said Mr. Dodson impressively, after swallowing the brandy at a single gulp, “you _should_ know that I am physically incapable of doing anything of the kind.” “I can smell it from here,” said the lady in the heliotrope blouse. “I know it is not considered the thing to contradict a lady,” said Mr. Dodson, withdrawing two steps from the buffet, “but you appear to have paid me the compliment of forgetting the commercial traveller who has just gone out. So long. Be good.” Mr. Dodson sauntered out of the refreshment buffet of the Brontë Hotel with the inimitable nonchalance of bearing which many, besides the lady in the heliotrope blouse, never failed to admire.