It was not until the eve of the dread ordeal, when the tailor delivered his mysterious parcel to 43, Milton Street, E.C., that he took the white-haired man, his father, into his confidence. Then it was that, worn out with a distress that he knew to be contemptible, he asked that guide and comforter to whom he was wont to repair in all emergencies, whose wisdom was never at fault, whether he could escape from his ordeal with his own honour inviolate and without giving pain to one among the street-persons to whom he owed a debt of gratitude, and towards whom he already felt himself to be linked in a curious bond of affection. The white-haired man, his father, did not repress a faint smile, which, however, was melancholy. “Thou wilt cease to be Achilles, beloved one,” said his father, “unless trial is constantly made of thy quality. Thou canst retain thy nobility only at the point of the sword. Wert thou not Achilles I would say to thee, shun all such ordeals as these. Being Achilles I would say to thee, follow in the steps of thy guide wheresoever they may lead thee through the many and devious purlieus of the out-of-doors world.” “Thy wisdom sustains me, my father,” said the young man. “It searches my veins and exorcises the coldness of my faint spirit almost like the living breath of the great book itself. I would beseech thee, my father, to reveal to me a passage that is proper to my pass.” The young man took down the mighty tome from the shelf, and the aged man his father opened it at a page worn thin by the intercourse of many generations. After the young man had perused it in deep silence for a little while, he knelt for many hours with his scarred forehead bent upon the faded vellum. XXV During the next day, which was so big with fate, Mr. William Jordan, Junior, was the recipient of further instruction from his mentor for his guidance at the forthcoming ceremonial. “Mind you don’t tuck your napkin into your collar,” said this authority in the ways of the polite world; “and don’t eat your cheese with your knife; and don’t drink out of the finger bowls. And mind you turn up without a speck of dirt on your shoes. I should recommend you to take a ’bus to St. Paul’s Station; and you had better arrange with young Davis, who will be on the train, to split a hansom from Peckham Station to Midlothian Avenue.” By the intervention of this practical mind, which, of course, by this time wielded a considerable influence in high places, both G. Eliot Davis and William Jordan, Junior, were allowed to relinquish their official duties at six p.m. in order to prepare for the festivities of the night. As William Jordan, Junior, tied up the last parcel and stepped down from his high stool immediately prior to stealing home to array himself in fear and trembling and a brand new evening suit for the dread ordeal that awaited him, he heard, for the twentieth time that day, the voice of his mentor in his ear.