“You’re a sly one, you are,” George gloated—­“always signin’ your name ‘P.  Sybarite’ and pretendin’ your maiden monaker was ‘Peter’!  But now we know you!  Take off them whiskers—­Perceval!”

A really wise mind-reader would have called a policeman, then and there; for mayhem was the least of the crimes contemplated by P. Sybarite.  But restraining himself, he did nothing more than disentangle his legs, slip down from the tall stool, and approach Mr. Bross with an outstretched hand.

“If that letter’s for me,” he said quietly, “give it here, please.”

“Special d’liv’ry—­just come,” announced George, holding the letter high, out of easy reach, while he read in exultant accents the traitorous address:  “’Perceval Sybarite, Esquire, Care of Messrs. Whigham and Wimper’!  O you Perceval—­Esquire!”

“Give me my letter,” P. Sybarite insisted without raising his voice.

“Gawd knows I don’t want it,” protested George.  “I got no truck with your swell friends what know your real name and write to you on per-fumed paper with monograms and everything.”

He held the envelope close to his nose and sniffed in ecstasy until it was torn rudely from his grasp.

“Here!” he cried resentfully.  “Where’s your manners?...  Perceval!”

Dumb with impotent rage, P. Sybarite climbed back on his stool, while George sat down at his desk, lighted a Sweet Caporal (it was after three o’clock and both the partners were gone for the day) and with a leer watched the bookkeeper carefully slit the envelope and withdraw its enclosures.

Ignoring him, P. Sybarite ran his eye through the few lines of notably careless feminine handwriting: 

  My dear Perceval,—­

Mother & I had planned to take some friends to the theatre to-night and bought a box for the Knickerbocker several weeks ago, but now we have decided to go to Mrs. Hadley-Owen’s post-Lenten masquerade ball instead, and as none of our friends can use the tickets, I thought possibly you might like them.  They say Otis Skinner is wonderful.  Of course you may not care to sit in a stage box without a dress suit, but perhaps you won’t mind.  If you do, maybe you know somebody else who could go properly dressed.

  Your aff’te cousin,

  Mae Alys.

The colour deepened in P. Sybarite’s cheeks, and instantaneous pin-pricks of fire enlivened his long-suffering eyes.  But again he said nothing.  And since his eyes were downcast, George was unaware of their fitful incandescence.

Puffing vigorously at his cigarette, he rocked back and forth on the hind legs of his chair and crowed in jubilation:  “Perceval!  O you great, big, beautiful Perc’!”

P. Sybarite made a motion as if to tear the note across, hesitated, and reconsidered.  Through a long minute he sat thoughtfully examining the tickets presented him by his aff’te cousin.