d, interrupting:

"But it's ticklish work now, eh? Six months' 'hard' wouldn't be
pleasant, would it?"

"What do you mean, Mr.--er Carter?" she asked.

I was still blind. I believe I winked, and I'm sure I whispered, "Tea."

Miss Milton drew herself up very straight.

"I do not bribe," she said. "What I distribute is pamphlets."

Now I suppose that "pamphlets" and "blankets don't really sound much
alike, but I was agitated.

"Quite right," said I. "Poor old things! They can't afford proper fuel."

She rose to her feet.

"I was not joking," she said with horrible severity.

"Neither was I," I declared in humble apology. "Didn't you say
blankets?'"

"Pamphlets."

"Oh!"

There was a long pause. I glanced at Mrs. Hilary. Things had not fallen
out as happily as they might, but I did not mean to give up yet.

"I see you're right," I said, still humbly. "To descend to such means as
I had in my mind is--"

"To throw away our true weapons," said she earnestly. (She sat down
again--good sign.)

"What we really need--" I began.

"Is a reform of the upper classes," said she.

"Let them give an example of duty, of self-denial, of frugality."

I was not to be caught out again.

"Just what I always say," I observed, impressively.

"Let them put away their horse racing, their betting, their luxurious
living, their--"

"You're right, Miss Milton," said I.

"Let them set an example of morality."

"They should," I assented.

Miss Milton smiled.

"I thought we agreed really," said she.

"I'm sure we do," cried I; and I winked with my "off" eye at Mrs. Hilary
as I sat down beside Miss Milton.

"Now I heard of a man the other day," said she, "who's nearly 40. He's
got an estate in the country. He never goes there, except for a few
days' shooting. He lives in town. He spends too much. He passes an
absolutely vacant existence in a round of empty gaiety. He has by no
means a good reputation. He dangles about, wasting his time and his
money. Is that the sort of example--?"

"He's a traitor to his class," said I warmly.

"If you want him, you must look on a race course, or at a tailor's, or
in some fashionable woman's boudoir. And his estate looks after itself.
He's too selfish to marry, too idle to work, too silly to think."

I began to be sorry for this man, in spite of his peccadilloes.

"I wonder if I've met him," said I. "I'm occasionally in town, when I
can get time to run up. What's his name?"