lapel of
the great man's coat. Even in that moment of humiliation, Jacob felt
a little thrill of triumph at the thought of Mr. Bultiwell's three
gardeners. It took more than gardeners to grow such a rose as he
was wearing. He liked to fancy that it took personal care, personal
sympathy, personal love. The sweetest and rarest flowers must have
their special atmosphere.

Quite suddenly Mr. Edward Bultiwell laid down his _Times_ and glared
across at Jacob. He was a large man, with an ugly red face, a neck
which hung over his collar in rolls, and a resonant voice. Directly
he began to speak, Jacob began to shiver.

"Pratt," he said, "am I to understand that the greeting which you
offered to the occupants of this carriage, when you entered, was
intended to include me?"

"I--I certainly meant it to," was the tremulous reply.

"Then let me beg that such a liberty be not repeated," Mr. Bultiwell
continued brutally. "I look upon a man who has compounded with his
creditors as a person temporarily, at any rate, outside the pale
of converse with his fellows on--er--equal terms. I look upon your
presence in a first-class carriage, wearing a floral adornment,"
Mr. Bultiwell added, with a jealous glance at the very beautiful
rose, "which is, to say the least of it, conspicuous, as--er--an
impertinence to those who have had the misfortune to suffer from
your insolvency."

The healthy colour faded from Jacob's cheeks. He had the air of one
stricken by a lash--dazed for the moment and bewildered.

"My rose cost me nothing," he faltered, "and my season ticket doesn't
expire till next month. I must go up to the City. My help is
needed--with the books."

Mr. Bultiwell shook his paper preparatory to disappearing behind it.

"Your presence here may be considered a matter of taste," he fired
off, as a parting shot. "I call it damned bad taste!"

Mr. Jacob Pratt sat like a hurt thing till the train stopped at the
next station. Then he stumbled out on to the platform, and, making
his way through an unaccountable mist, he climbed somehow or other
into a third-class carriage. Richard Dauncey, the melancholy man who
lived in the cottage opposite to his, looked up at the newcomer's
entrance, and, for the first time within his recollection, Jacob saw
him smile.

"Good morning, Mr. Pratt," the former said, with a strenuous attempt
at cordiality. "If you'll excuse my saying so, that's the finest rose
I've ever seen in my life."

Richard