He had a singular faculty for arousing the waspishness of his wife; yet, save on rare occasions, he was the meekest of men in her presence. “Well, you know best, Eliza,” he said. “I have n't been married to you for six-and-twenty years without being perfectly certain of that,” she replied tartly. So Mr. Hardacre went to the Jews, and the princess promised to come to Mrs. Hardacre. Norma was not the only one that morning who was aroused to a sense of responsibility. The footman entering Jimmie's bedroom brought with him a flat cardboard box neatly addressed in Aline's handwriting. The box contained a new shirt, two new collars, a new silk tie, and a pair of grey suède gloves; also a letter from Aline instructing him as to the use of these various articles of attire. “Be sure to wear your frock-coat,” wrote the director of Jimmie's conduct. “I wish you had one less than six years old; but I went over it with benzine and ammonia before I packed it up, so perhaps it won't be so bad. And wear your patent-leather evening shoes. They'll look quite smart if you'll tie the laces up tight, and stick the ends in between the shoe and the sock. Oh, I wish I could come and turn you out decently! and _please_, Jimmie dear, don't cut yourself shaving and go about all day with a ridiculous bit of cotton wool on your dear chin. Tony says you need n't wear the frock-coat, but I know better. What acquaintance has he with princesses and duchesses? And that reminds me to tell you that Tony--” _et caetera, et caetera,_ in a manner that brought the kindest smile in the world into Jimmie's eyes. He dressed with scrupulous regard to directions, but not in the frock-coat. He had a morning sitting with the princess at Chiltern Towers to get through before airing himself in the splendour of benzine and ammonia. He put on his old tweed jacket and went downstairs. Morland was the only person as yet in the breakfast-room. He held a morning paper tight in his hand, and stared through the window, his back to the door. On Jimmie's entrance he started round, and Jimmie saw by a harassed face that something had happened. “My dear fellow--” he began in alarm. Morland smoothed out the paper with nervous fingers, and threw it somewhat ostentatiously on a chair. Then he walked to the table and poured himself out some tea. The handle of the silver teapot slid in his grasp, and awkwardly trying to save the pouring flood of liquid, he dropped the teapot among the cups and saucers. It was a disaster, but one that could have been adequately greeted by a simpler series of expletives. He cursed vehemently. “What's the matter, man?” asked Jimmie. Morland turned violently upon him. “The very devil's the matter. There never was such a mess since the world began. What an infernal fool I have been! You do well to steer clear of women.” “Tell me what's wrong and I may be able to help you.” Morland looked at him for a moment in gloomy doubt. Then he shook his head.