apologies.

"Never mind why you're late," said our hostess, "I'm sure you couldn't help
it. Now we'll eat," and once again a dozen Londoners fell into ark-
approaching formation and moved towards repletion.

The party was familiar enough, after certain solvents of speech had been
applied, for conversation to become general; and during the _entrée_ we
were all listening to Sir Charles telling the famous story of the eminent
numismatist who, visiting the British Museum, was taken for a thief. By way
of making the narration the more vivid he felt in his pocket for a coin
with which to illustrate the dramatic crisis, when his expression became
suddenly alarmed and fixed.

"Good heavens!" he said, fumbling nervously all over his clothes, "I've
given it to the cabman. Of all the infernal idiocy! I knew I should. I had
a presentiment that I should get it muddled up with my other money and give
it away."

"What was it?" he was asked.

"Was it something very valuable?"

"Was it a rare coin?"

Murmurs of sympathy made a low accompaniment.

"It was a goldmohur," said Sir Charles. "A very beautiful coin of the
Moguls. I keep it as a kind of mascot. I've had it for years, but left it
behind and it reached me from India only this morning. Having come away