“Tell Miss Rosenberg I’ll see her now,” Matt Kelson said; and as he leaned back in his luxurious chair with that dignity of self-assurance only the man who is rich can maintain, it was hard to realise that he and the Matt Kelson of a year ago were the same.  A year ago he had been a poor, underpaid, ill nourished pen-driver, with all the odious marks of a pen-driver’s servility thick upon him.  It was true he had been fastidious as to his appearance—­that is to say, as fastidious as any one can be, who has to buy clothes ready made and can only afford to pay a few dollars for them; that he had sacrificed meals to wear white shirts—­boiled shirts as one called them in San Francisco—­and to get his things got up decently at a respectable laundry; but his teeth in those days did not receive the attention they ought to have received (he could not afford a dentist), the tobacco he smoked was often offensive; and there were to be found in him sundry other details that one usually finds in clerks, and in most other people who literally have to fight for a living.

But now, all that was changed.  Kelson was rich.  He bought his suits at Poole’s, his hats at Christie’s, his boots in Regent Street.  He patronized a dentist in Cavendish Square, and a manicurist in Bond Street.  He belonged to a crack club in Pall Mall, and never smoked anything but the most expensive cigars.  His ambition had been speedily realized.  He had passionately longed to be a fop—­he was one.  The only thing that troubled him, was that he could not be an aristocrat at the same time.  But, after all, what did that matter?  The girls looked at him all the same, and that was all he wanted.  He worshipped, he adored, pretty girls; and he was most anxious that they should adore him.

Consequently, his first thought, when he saw Lilian Rosenberg’s name on the form the commissionaire presented him, was “Is she pretty?” And the first thing he said to himself directly the door opened to admit her was, “By Jove! she is.”

Then he assumed an air more suited to a partner in a big London firm, and flourishing a richly bejewelled hand, said “Pray take a seat, madam.  What can I do for you?”

“I want you to tell me the meaning of these verses,” Lilian Rosenberg said, handing him two sheets of foolscap and then sitting down.  “They were suggested to me in my sleep—­in other words, I dreamed them.”

“You dreamed them, did you!” Kelson said, noticing with approval that the girl had well-kept white hands, and that her clothes, though not particularly expensive, were chic, and up-to-date.  “Do you want me only to interpret this poem, or shall I tell you something about yourself first?”

“By all means tell me something about myself first—­if you can,” Lilian Rosenberg said.  “I want to get as much as I can out of you.  Your fees are exorbitant.”

“Very well, then,” Kelson rejoined with a smile.  “Don’t blame me if I tell you too much.  You were born at sea.  Being a troublesome girl at home, you were sent to a boarding-school, where you distinguished yourself in various ways, and last but not least, by making the headmistress—­a married woman—­desperately jealous.  This led to your being removed.  Removed is a more delicate term than ‘expelled.’  Am I right?”