"Good! I shall go. Mrs. Harris is the worst hostess in the city, but she keeps the best cook. Proceed."
The worthy Sylvester took from the table a delicately scented letter that breathed its delightful suggestion of romance to his grateful nostrils, whereupon he promptly blushed a deep, unlovely, tomato-like red. "It starts," said he, "'My Dearest Love——'"
His master glanced at him. "Don't blush," he said. "The grande passion is nothing to be ashamed of." He carefully adjusted his tie. "What is the young lady's name?"
"Myrtle, sir."
"Ah, yes; poor little Myrtle! What a pity a woman clings to a romance that is dead. There is something morbid in women that makes them do it. It is like embracing a corpse."
"Shall I read it, sir?"
"No, no; don't bother. I know what is in it. On the third page she declares she hates me, and on the fifth she denies it. Myrtle runs so deucedly to form."
A look of relief crossed the rotund countenance of Mr. Sylvester as he took up the last letter. "It's from a society for educating the poor, sir."
"Tear it up. What we need is a society for educating the rich." Completely dressed, Montague turned round and struck an attitude. "It is my intention some day," he said with mock airiness, "to found a Conservatoire Universelle, where philanthropists will be taught charity, ministers of the gospel gain humility, musicians learn to feel, and newspaper writers take up the elements of language. Heavens! such scope as I should have! Stick your head out of the window and see if a taxi is waiting."
Sylvester raised the window and surveyed the street below. "It's there, sir," he said, drawing his head in.