"She said somethin' oncet about fifty per," George remembered gloomily.
"It's yours—doubled," P. Sybarite told him. "To-morrow you will resign from the employ of Whigham & Wimper and go to Blessington's to enter their shipping department at a hundred a week; and if you don't earn it, may God have mercy on your wretched soul!"
George got up very suddenly.
"I'll go send for the doctor," he announced.
"One moment more." P. Sybarite dropped a detaining hand upon his arm. "You and Violet are invited to dinner to-night—at the Hotel Plaza. Don't be alarmed; you needn't dress; we'll dine privately in Marian's apartment."
"Marian!"
"Miss Blessington—Molly Lessing that was."
"Honest!" said George sincerely. "I don't know whether to think you've gone bughouse or not. You've always been a bit queer and foolish in the bean, but never since I've known you—"
"And after dinner," P. Sybarite pursued evenly, "you're going to attend a very quiet little wedding party."
"Whose, for God's sake?"