e a dark-brown lounge suit and
a wine-coloured tie, and looked immaculate. I remember him as the
grubbiest little wretch that ever disgraced Harrow.

He swallowed his mouthful and drank some tea.

"Recovered your sanity?" he asked.

"The dangerous symptoms have passed over," I replied. "I undertake not
to bite."

He regarded me as though he were not quite certain, and asked in his
pronounless way whether I was glad to be back in London.

"Yes," said I. "Rogers is the only human creature who can properly wax
the ends of my moustache. It got horribly limp in the air of Murglebed.
That is the one and only disadvantage of the place."

"Doesn't seem to have done you much good," he remarked, scanning me
critically. "You are as white as you were before you went away. Why the
blazes you didn't go to Madeira, or the South of France, or South Africa
I can't imagine."

"I don't suppose you can," said I. "Any news?"

"I should think I have! But first let me go through the appointments."

He consulted a pocket-book. On December 2nd I was to dine with Tanners'
Company and reply to the toast of "The House of Commons." On the 4th
my constituency claimed me for the opening of a bazaar at Wymington.
A little later I was to speak somewhere in the North of England at a
by-election in support of the party candidate.

"It will be fought on Tariff Reform, about which I know nothing," I
objected.

"I know everything," he declared. "I'll see you through. You must buck
up a bit, Simon, and get your name better known about the country. And
this brings me to my news. I was talking to Raggles the other day--he
dropped a hint, and Raggles's hints are jolly well worth while picking
up. Just come to the front and show yourself, and there's a place in the
Ministry."

"Ministry?"

"Sanderson's going."

"Sanderson?" I queried, interested, in spite of myself, at these
puerilities. "What's the matter with him?"

"Swelled head. There have been awful rows--this is confidential--and
he's got the hump. Thinks he ought to be the Chancellor of the
Exchequer, or at least First Lord, instead of an Under Secretary. So
he's going to chuck it, before he gets the chuck himself--see?"

"I perceive," said I, "that your conversational English style is
abominable."

He lit a cigarette and continued, loftily taking no notice of my rebuke.

"There's bound to be a vacancy. Why shouldn't you fill it? They seem to
want you. You're miles away over the he