Mr. Melchizidek, who unlike an Englishman knew when he was beaten, said in a solemn bass: 

“When can I send for them, sir?”

“You can send for them this afternoon at the Grand Babylon, and be sure that I have them back to-morrow night.”

“Certainly, sir.  It’s only fair to ourselves, sir, to state that we have a great deal of trouble with our workmen in these days.”

“No doubt.  And I have a great deal of trouble to find cash in these days, but I don’t pay your bills with bad money, I think.”

A discreet sycophantic smile from the group at this devastating witticism!

Mr. Prohack cautiously approached; the moment had awkwardness, but Mr. Prohack owed it to himself to behave with all presence of mind.

“Hullo, Charlie!” said he casually.

“Hello, dad!  How are you?” And Charlie, wearing the very suit in which he had left home for Glasgow, shook hands boyishly.

Looking into his firm, confident eyes, Mr. Prohack realised, perhaps for the first time, that the fruit of his loins was no common boy.  The mere fact that as an out-of-work ex-officer, precariously making a bit in motor-bicycle deals, he had dared to go to Melchizidek’s firm for clothes, and that he was now daring to affront Melchizidek,—­this sole fact separated him from the ruck of sons.

“I warn you, dad, that if you’re ordering clothes here you’re ordering trouble.”

Mr. Melchizidek’s interjected remarks fitted to the occasion.  The group dissipated.  The males of the Prohack family could say nothing interesting to each other in such a situation.  They could only pretend that their relations were purely normal; which they did quite well.

“I say, dad, I’m awfully busy this morning.  I can’t stop now.  I’ve telephoned the mater and she’s coming to the Grand Babylon for lunch—­one thirty.  Sis too, I think.  Do come.  You haven’t got anything else to do.”  The boy murmured all this.

“Oh!  Haven’t I!  I’m just as busy as you are, and more.”

However, Mr. Prohack accepted the invitation.  Charlie went off in haste.  Mr. Prohack arrived on the pavement in time to see him departing in an open semi-racing car driven by a mature, handsome and elegant woman, with a chauffeur sitting behind.  Mr. Prohack’s mind was one immense interrogation concerning his son.  He had seen him, spoken with him, and—­owing to the peculiar circumstances—­learnt nothing whatever.  Indeed, the mystery of Charlie was deepened.  Had Charles hurried away in order to hide the mature handsome lady from his father?...  Mr. Prohack might have moralised, but he suddenly remembered that he had a lady in his own car, and that the disparity between their ages was no less than the disparity between the ages of the occupants of the car in which Charles had fled.

III