mtalk,
she's a great light on woman suffrage, and Miss Scragg
and Mr. Underdone--they both write poetry, so they can
talk about that."

"It'll be a great treat to listen to them all," said Mr.
Blinks.

A week later, on the day of the Blinkses' reception,
there was a string of motors three deep along a line of
a hundred yards in front of the house.

Inside the reception rooms were filled.

Mr. Blinks, insignificant even in his own house, moved
to and fro among his guests.

Archdeacon Domb and Dean Sollem were standing side by
side with their heads gravely lowered, as they talked,
over the cups of tea that they held in their hands.

Mr. Blinks edged towards them.

"This'll be something pretty good," he murmured to himself
as he got within reach of their conversation.

"What do you do about your body?" the Archdeacon was
asking in his deep, solemn tones.

"Practically nothing," said the Bishop. "A little rub of
shellac now and then, but practically nothing."

"You wash it, of course?" asked Dr. Domb.

"Only now and again, but far less than you would think.
I really take very little thought for my body."

"Ah," said Dr. Domb reflectively, "I went all over mine
last summer with linseed oil."

"But didn't you find," said the Bishop, "that it got into
your pipes and choked your feed?"

"It did," said Dr. Domb, munching a bit of toast as he
spoke. "In fact, I have had a lot of trouble with my
feed ever since."

"Try flushing your pipes out with hot steam," said the
Bishop. Mr. Blinks had listened in something like dismay.

"Motor-cars!" he murmured. "Who'd have thought it?"

But at this moment a genial, hearty-looking person came
pushing towards him with a cheery greeting.

"I'm afraid I'm rather late, Blinks," he said.

"Delayed in court, eh. Judge?" said Blinks as he shook
hands.

"No, blew out a plug!" said the Judge. "Stalled me right
up."

"Blew out a plug!" exclaimed Dr. Domb and the Bishop,
deeply interested at once.

"A cracked insulator, I think," said the Judge.

"Possibly," said the Archdeacon very gravely, "the terminal
nuts of your dry battery were loose."

Mr. Blinks moved slowly away.

"Dear me!" he mused, "how changed they are."

It was a relief to him to edge his way quietly into
another group of guests where he felt certain that the
talk would be of quite another kind.

Professor Potofax and Miss Scragg and a number of others
were evidently talking about books.

"A