e, and (what borders on the supernatural) they were kept.

Merton's first editions went to Sotheby's, 'Property of a gentleman who
is changing his objects of collection.' A Russian archduke bought
Logan's unique set of golf clubs by Philp. Funds accrued from other
sources. Logan had a friend, dearer friend had no man, one Trevor, a
pleasant bachelor whose sister kept house for him. His purse, or rather
his cheque book, gaped with desire to be at Logan's service, but had
gaped in vain. Finding Logan grinning one day over the advertisement
columns of a paper at the club, his prophetic soul discerned a good
thing, and he wormed it out 'in dern privacy.' He slapped his manly
thigh and insisted on being in it--as a capitalist. The other stoutly
resisted, but was overcome.

'You need an office, you need retaining fees, you need outfits for the
accomplices, and it is a legitimate investment. I'll take interest and
risks,' said Trevor.

So the money was found.

The inaugural dinner, for the engaging of accomplices, was given in a
private room of a restaurant in Pall Mall.

The dinner was gay, but a little pathetic. Neatness, rather than the
gloss of novelty (though other gloss there was), characterised the
garments of the men. The toilettes of the women were modest; that amount
of praise (and it is a good deal) they deserved. A young lady, Miss
Maskelyne, an amber-hued beauty, who practically lived as a female jester
at the houses of the great, shone resplendent, indeed, but magnificence
of apparel was demanded by her profession.

'I am _so_ tired of it,' she said to Merton. 'Fancy being more and more
anxious for country house invitations. Fancy an artist's feelings, when
she knows she has not been a success. And then when the woman of the
house detests you! She often does. And when they ask you to give your
imitation of So-and-so, and forget that his niece is in the room! Do you
know what they would have called people like me a hundred years ago? Toad-
eaters! There is one of us in an old novel I read a bit of once. She
goes about, an old maid, to houses. Once she arrived in a snow storm and
a hearse. Am I to come to that? I keep learning new drawing-room
tricks. And when you fall ill, as I did at Eckford, and you can't leave,
and you think they are tired to death of you! Oh, it is I who am tired,
and time passes, and one grows old. I am a hag!'

Merton said 'what he ought to have said,' and wh