again find an excuse to write me on any matter, please address me
by the initial of my ridiculous first name only; it is of course
impossible for me to live down the deep damnation of having been
born a Sybarite; but the indulgence of my friends can save me the
further degradation of being known as Perceval.

With thanks renewed and profound, I remain, all things considered,

Remotely yours,

P. SYBARITE.

This he sealed and addressed in a stamped envelope: then thrust his
pen into a raw but none the less antique potato; covered the red and
black inkwells; closed the ledger; locked the petty-cash box and put
it away; painstakingly arranged the blotters, paste-pot, and all the
clerical paraphernalia of his desk; and slewed round on his stool to
blink pensively at Mr. Bross.

That gentleman, having some time since despaired of any response to
his persistent baiting, was now preoccupied with a hand-mirror and
endeavours to erase the smudge of marking-ink from his face by means
of a handkerchief which he now and again moistened in an engagingly
natural and unaffected manner.

"It's no use, George," observed P. Sybarite presently. "If you're in
earnest in these public-spirited endeavours to--how would you put
it?--to remove the soil from your map, take a tip from an old hand and
go to soap and water. I know it's painful, but, believe me, it's the
only way."