ried to publish it, people
would only look upon it as an inferior sort of fiction, and declare that
the idea had been used before. I thought of having one of the beans
resolved into its constituents by a scientific physician, but I doubt if
I'd get any one to treat the matter seriously. Of course," he went on,
"if there were any quantity of the beans, so that we could prove the
truth of our statements upon any one who professed to doubt them, we
might be able to put them to some practical use. At present," he
concluded, with a little sigh, "I really can't think of any."

"When one considers," Burton remarked, "the number of people in high
positions who might have discovered these beans and profited by them, it
does rather appear as though they had been wasted upon an auctioneer and
an auctioneer's clerk who have to get their livings."

"I entirely agree with you," Mr. Waddington assented. "I must admit
that in some respects I feel happier and life seems a much more
interesting place. Yet I can't altogether escape from certain
apprehensions as regards the future."

"If you take my advice," Burton said firmly, "you'll continue the
business exactly as you are doing at present."

"I have no idea of abandoning it," Mr. Waddington replied. "The
trouble is, how long will it be before it abandons me?"

"I have a theory of my own as to that," Burton declared. "We will not
talk about it at present--simply wait and see."

Mr. Waddington paid the bill.

"Meanwhile," he said, "you had better get down to Garden Green as
quickly as you can. You will excuse me if I hurry off? It is almost
time to start the sale again."

Burton followed his host into the street. The sun was shining, and a
breath of perfume from the roses in a woman's gown assailed him, as she
passed by on the threshold to enter the restaurant. He stood quite
still for a moment. He had succeeded in his object, he had acquired the
beans which were to restore to him his domestic life, and in place of
any sense of satisfaction he was conscious of an intense sense of
depression. What magic, after all, could change Ellen! He forgot for
one moment the gulf across which he had so miraculously passed. He
thought of himself as he was now, and of Ellen as she had been. The
memory of that visit to Garden Green seemed suddenly like a nightmare.
The memory of the train, underground for part of the way, with its
stuffy odors, made him shiver. The hot, dusty, unmade street, wi