In his ears rang the hideous tumult of George’s joy: 

“Per-ce-val!”

Drawing to him one of the Whigham & Wimper letterheads, P. Sybarite dipped a pen, considered briefly, and wrote rapidly and freely in a minute hand: 

  My dear Mae Alys:—­

Every man has his price.  You know mine.  Pocketing false pride, I accept your bounty with all the gratitude and humility becoming in a poor relation.  And if arrested for appearing in the box without evening clothes, I promise solemnly to brazen it out, pretend that I bought the tickets myself—­or stole them—­and keep the newspapers ignorant of our kinship.  Fear not—­trust me—­and enjoy the masque as much as I mean to enjoy “Kismet.”

And if you would do me the greatest of favours—­should you ever again find an excuse to write me on any matter, please address me by the initial of my ridiculous first name only; it is of course impossible for me to live down the deep damnation of having been born a Sybarite; but the indulgence of my friends can save me the further degradation of being known as Perceval.

  With thanks renewed and profound, I remain, all things considered,

  Remotely yours,

  P. Sybarite.

This he sealed and addressed in a stamped envelope:  then thrust his pen into a raw but none the less antique potato; covered the red and black inkwells; closed the ledger; locked the petty-cash box and put it away; painstakingly arranged the blotters, paste-pot, and all the clerical paraphernalia of his desk; and slewed round on his stool to blink pensively at Mr. Bross.

That gentleman, having some time since despaired of any response to his persistent baiting, was now preoccupied with a hand-mirror and endeavours to erase the smudge of marking-ink from his face by means of a handkerchief which he now and again moistened in an engagingly natural and unaffected manner.

“It’s no use, George,” observed P. Sybarite presently.  “If you’re in earnest in these public-spirited endeavours to—­how would you put it?—­to remove the soil from your map, take a tip from an old hand and go to soap and water.  I know it’s painful, but, believe me, it’s the only way.”

George looked up in some surprise.

“Why, there you are, little Bright Eyes!” he exclaimed with spirit.  “I was beginnin’ to be afraid this sittin’ would pass off without a visit from Uncle George’s pet control.  Had little Perceval any message from the Other Side th’safternoon?”

“One or two,” assented P. Sybarite gravely.  “To begin with, I’m going to shut up shop in just five minutes; and if you don’t want to show yourself on the street looking like a difference of opinion between a bull-calf and a fountain pen—­”

“Gotcha,” interrupted George, rising and putting away handkerchief and mirror.  “I’ll drown myself, if you say so.  Anythin’s better’n letting you talk me to death.”