was torn rudely from his grasp.

"Here!" he cried resentfully. "Where's your manners?... Perceval!"

Dumb with impotent rage, P. Sybarite climbed back on his stool, while
George sat down at his desk, lighted a Sweet Caporal (it was after
three o'clock and both the partners were gone for the day) and with a
leer watched the bookkeeper carefully slit the envelope and withdraw
its enclosures.

Ignoring him, P. Sybarite ran his eye through the few lines of notably
careless feminine handwriting:

MY DEAR PERCEVAL,--

Mother & I had planned to take some friends to the theatre to-night
and bought a box for the Knickerbocker several weeks ago, but now
we have decided to go to Mrs. Hadley-Owen's post-Lenten masquerade
ball instead, and as none of our friends can use the tickets, I
thought possibly you might like them. They say Otis Skinner is
_wonderful_. Of course you may not care to sit in a stage box
without a dress suit, but perhaps you won't mind. If you do, maybe
you know somebody else who could go properly dressed.

Your aff'te cousin,

MAE ALYS.

The colour deepened in P. Sybarite's cheeks, and instantaneous
pin-pricks of fire enlivened his long-suffering eyes. But again he