“You Juggins!” said Mr. Dodson, whose scorn sought in vain to express itself adequately. “The whole thing is so simple. If you are going to keep your stool in the counting-house of Crumpett and Hawker, you have got to show yourself up to the traditions of the house. I can’t talk plainer. You have got to copy Octavius. Of course he means nothing, but he is very impressive. Some of the staff say it’s Eton and some say it’s Oxford, but Pa says it’s a blend. And you can lay to it Pa knows. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, my son; if you are a good boy, and can only learn to use the right-coloured wax and to paste those labels the right side up, one of these days I will take you round into Pall Mall, and you shall watch Octavius go up the steps of his club.” By the time this munificent offer had been made by Mr. Dodson, with an air of quiet patronage which became him extremely well, he and the bewildered neophyte, whose education he had undertaken, had come to the brass plate of No. 24 Trafalgar Square. As soon as they had entered these halcyon portals they encountered one of the fortunate ones of a world in which the favours are by no means impartially dispensed, in the person of a young gentleman, who thus early in life had been called to the high office of administering to the personal good-will and pleasure of the head of the firm, and of whom in consequence all the other junior members of the staff were inordinately jealous. Mr. Dodson’s manner of addressing this luminary was in such memorable contrast to the one he had lately been using, that even such a one as William Jordan, Junior, who in the phrase of Mr. Dodson “was no more than fivepence ha’penny to the shilling,” was fain to observe it. “Davis,” said Mr. Dodson, “has Mr. Octavius gone out yet to luncheon?” “Yes, Dodson,” said Mr. Davis. “Mr. Octavius _has_ gone out to luncheon. He went out at twenty minutes to two, to lunch with Sir Topman Murtle at the Marlborough.” “Ah,” said Mr. Dodson, with aristocratic self-possession bordering on indifference. “Is Murtle selling?” “Yes, Dodson,” said Mr. Davis blandly, “Sir Topman _is_ selling. The tenth enormous impression completing two hundred thousand copies, has been called for by the Trade within twenty-four days of publication.” “H’m,” said Mr. Dodson, concealing a yawn in a very well-bred manner. “If he goes on he will beat Lavinia.” “No, Dodson,” said Mr. Davis, dissenting delicately, “Miss Lavinia Longborn Gentle once had two hundred thousand copies called for by the Trade in twenty-four hours.” “Going out now to luncheon, Davis?” “Yes, Dodson, I am.” As Mr. Davis sauntered out in a manner entirely worthy of Mr. Dodson himself, William Jordan, Junior, with his odd and unaccountable natural courtesy, which had already baffled many who had come in contact with it, opened the door that he might pass through.