no demand for them."

"My servant will fetch the coffee as usual," said the purchaser,
producing a coin from a wonderful metal-work purse. As an apparent
afterthought he fired out the question: "Have you, perhaps, any quail
seed?"

"No," said the grocer, without hesitation, "we don't stock it."

"What will he deny next?" asked Mrs. Greyes under her breath. What made
it seem so much worse was the fact that Mr. Scarrick had quite recently
presided at a lecture on Savonarola.

Turning up the deep astrachan collar of his long coat, the stranger swept
out of the shop, with the air, Miss Fritten afterwards described it, of a
Satrap proroguing a Sanhedrim. Whether such a pleasant function ever
fell to a Satrap's lot she was not quite certain, but the simile
faithfully conveyed her meaning to a large circle of acquaintances.

"Don't let's bother about the 3.12," said Mrs. Greyes; "let's go and talk
this over at Laura Lipping's. It's her day."

When the dark-faced boy arrived at the shop next day with his brass
marketing bowl there was quite a fair gathering of customers, most of
whom seemed to be spinning out their purchasing operations with the air
of people who had very little to do with their time. In a voice that was
heard all over the shop, perhaps because everybody was intently
listening, he asked for a pound of honey and a packet of quail seed.

"More quail seed!" said Miss Fritten. "Those quails must be voracious,