"By Jove! I shall be late. I am always late, my dear chap; it partly accounts for my extraordinary popularity. A hostess is so relieved to see me by the time I turn up that for years afterwards she associates my face with pleasant sensations. Any mail, Sylvester?"
His servant crossed to the table, on which there reposed four letters. "These came in this afternoon, sir."
"Read them to me while I dress."
"Read them, Mr. Montague?" The valet's face was a study of respectful expostulation.
"Is the idea so preposterous, my dear fellow? I believe most people write letters with the idea of having them read."
The decorous Sylvester sighed, and broke the seal of the first letter. "I would beg to remind you," he read, "that your account——"
Montague made a deprecatory gesture. "How polite these trades-people are!" he said. "I shall expect one some day to enclose forget-me-nots. The next letter?"
Sylvester solemnly opened a diminutive envelope. "Mrs. W. De-Ponsy Harris requests the pleasure——"
"Another request! What is it—a tea or a dance?"
"A dinner, sir."