“We’re selling a great many of this particular article, and are prepared to stake our reputation on it,” Stan went on. “Established 1780; more than One Hundred Gold Medals. Those are our credentials. Those are what we lose.—Pass your spoon.”

Lady Tasker was rigid. Perhaps Stan would have been better advised to cast his spell over those who were going up in the world, and not on those who, like themselves, were coming down or barely holding their own. Again he went on, pointing engagingly at the small pot.

“But just try it,” he urged, pushing the pot under his aunt’s nose. “It isn’t what this man says or—I mean, it doesn’t cost you anything to try it. A free trial invited. Here’s the recipe, look, on the bottle—carefully selected Banyans, best cane sugar, lemon-juice refined by a patent process, and a touch of tabasco. The makers’ guarantee on every label—none genuine without it—have a go!”

With a “Really, Stan!” Lady Tasker had turned away in her chair, revolted. “And do you expect to go to a house again after an exhibition like that?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Eh?” said Stan, a little discomfited. “Too much salesman about it, d’you think? Brooks warned me about that. Fact is, he had a chap in as a sort of object-lesson. This chap came in—I didn’t know they had schools and classes for this kind of thing, did you?—this chap came in, and I was supposed to be somebody who didn’t want the stuff at any price, and he’d got to sell it to me whether I wanted it or not, and old Brooks said to me, ‘Now ask him how much the beastly muck is,’ and a lot of facers like that, and so we’d a set-to.... Then, when the fellow had gone, he said he’d had him in just to show me how not to do it.... But he was an ingenious sort of beast, and I can’t get his talk out of my head. I’d thought of having a shot at it to-night, but perhaps I’d better practise a bit more first. Thanks awfully for the criticism, Aunt Grace. If you don’t mind I’ll practise on you as we go along. I’m dining with a man to-night, but I’d better be sure of my ground.—Now what about having the Bits in, Dot?”

“I think I hear them coming,” said Dorothy, whose demureness had not given as much as a flicker. Perhaps she was wondering whether she could spare the sovereign His Impudence would presently ask her for.

The door opened, and Noel and Jackie stood there with a nurse behind them. Noel walked stoutly in. Jackie, not yet very firm on his pins, bumbled after him like an overladen bee.

III
THE “NOVUM”

Stan was quite right in supposing that the Cosimo Pratts wished to forget all about the Ludlow experiment that had disturbed the Shropshire country-side a year or more before, but he was wrong in the reason he assigned them. They were not in the least ashamed of it. As a stage in their intellectual development, the experiment had been entirely in its place. Especially in Mrs. Pratt’s career—as an old student of the McGrath School of Art, a familiar (for a time) with Poverty in cheap studios, the painter of the famous Feminist picture “Barrage,” and so forward—had this been true. Cosimo, in “The Life and Work of Miss Amory Towers,” a labour to which he devoted himself intermittently, pointed out the naturalness and inevitability of the sequence with real eloquence. Step had led to step, and the omission of any one step would have ruined the whole.