“What’s the use of them when I can get Sargent every day?” asked Mrs.
Bergmann.

“A man of action, perhaps?  Alexander, Bonaparte, Caesar, J., Cromwell, O., Hannibal?”

“Too heavy for luncheon,” she answered, “they would do for dinner.”

“Plain statesman?  Bismarck, Count; Chatham, Lord; Franklin, B; Richelieu, Cardinal.”

“That would make the members of the Cabinet feel uncomfortable,” she said.

“A Monarch?  Alfred; beg pardon, he’s an A. Richard III., Peter the Great, Louis XI., Nero?”

“No,” said Mrs. Bergmann.  “I can’t have a Royalty.  It would make it too stiff.”

“I have it,” said Mr. Satan, “a highwayman:  Dick Turpin; or a housebreaker:  Jack Sheppard or Charles Peace?”

“Oh! no,” said Mrs. Bergmann, “they might steal the Sevres.”

“A musician?  Bach or Beethoven?” he suggested.

“He’s getting into the B’s now,” thought Mrs. Bergmann.  “No,” she added aloud, “we should have to ask him to play, and he can’t play Wagner, I suppose, and musicians are so touchy.”

“I think I have it,” said Mr. Satan, “a wit:  Dr. Johnson, Sheridan, Sidney Smith?”

“We should probably find their jokes dull now,” said Mrs. Bergmann, thoughtfully.

“Miscellaneous?” inquired Mr. Satan, and turning over several leaves of his notebook, he rattled out the following names:  “Alcibiades, kind of statesman; Beau Brummel, fop; Cagliostro, conjurer; Robespierre, politician; Charles Stuart, Pretender; Warwick, King-maker; Borgia, A., Pope; Ditto, C., toxicologist; Wallenstein, mercenary; Bacon, Roger, man of science; Ditto, F., dishonest official; Tell, W., patriot; Jones, Paul, pirate; Lucullus, glutton; Simon Stylites, eccentric; Casanova, loose liver; Casabianca, cabin-boy; Chicot, jester; Sayers, T., prize-fighter; Cook, Captain, tourist; Nebuchadnezzar, food-faddist; Juan, D., lover; Froissart, war correspondent; Julian, apostate?”

“Don’t you see,” said Mrs. Bergmann, “we must have some one everybody has heard of?”

“David Garrick, actor and wit?” suggested Mr. Satan.

“It’s no good having an actor nobody has seen act,” said Mrs. Bergmann.

“What about a poet?” asked Mr. Satan, “Homer, Virgil, Dante, Byron, Shakespeare?”

“Shakespeare!” she cried out, “the very thing.  Everybody has heard of Shakespeare, more or less, and I expect he’d get on with everybody, and wouldn’t feel offended if I asked Alfred Austin or some other poet to meet him.  Can you get me Shakespeare?”

“Certainly,” said Mr. Satan, “day and date?”

“It must be Thursday fortnight,” said Mrs. Bergmann.  “And what, ah—­er—­your terms?”

“The usual terms,” he answered.  “In return for supernatural service rendered you during your lifetime, your soul reverts to me at your death.”

Mrs. Bergmann’s brain began to work quickly.  She was above all things a practical woman, and she immediately felt she was being defrauded.