At this point the poet glanced down the street, and, to his surprise, beheld Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys advancing towards him.
"Good-morning," she nodded with a charming smile, "I was coming to look for you. I have a favour to ask."
"A favour? Is it the—?"
"Well, it's rather prosaic for the—" she laughed. "In fact, it's tea."
"Tea?"
"Yes. It's rather a long story; but it comes to this. You see, Fred is very particular about the tea he drinks."
"Indeed?"
"It's a fact, I assure you. Well, when we were travelling in the states, Fred happened to come across some tea he liked particularly, at Chicago. And the funny thing about this tea is that it is compressed. It is called 'Wapshotts' Patent Compressed Tea;' now I daresay," added Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys demurely, "that you wouldn't think it possible for compressed tea to be good."
"To tell you the truth," said Mr. Moggridge, "I have never given the subject a thought."
"No, of course; being a poet, you wouldn't. But it's very good, all the same: you buy it in cakes, and have to be very particular that 'Wapshott and Sons' is written on each cake: of course it isn't really written—"