of course, that I lived in your--aw--delightful city for some years.
Strange we never met, 'pon my soul."

"Oh, New York's a pretty big place, Mr. Medcroft," said Freddie
good-naturedly. He was a slight young fellow with a fresh, inquisitive
face. "It's bigger than London in some ways. It's bigger upwards. Say,
do you know, you remind me of a fellow I knew in New York!"

"Haw, haw!" laughed Brock, without grace or reason. Miss Fowler caught
her breath sharply.

"Fellow named Brock. Stupid sort of chap, my mother says. I--"

"Oh, dear me, Mr. Ulstervelt," cried Edith, breaking in, "you shan't say
anything mean about Mr. Brock. He's my husband's best friend."

"I didn't say it, Mrs. Medcroft. It was my mother." Brock was hiding a
smile behind his hand. "She knows him better than I. To tell the truth,
I've never met him, but I've seen him on the Fifth Avenue stages. You
_do_ look like him, though, by Jove."

"It's extraordinary how many people think I look like dear old Brock,"
said the false Roxbury. "But, on the other hand, most people think that
Brock looks like me, so what's the odds? Haw, haw! Ripping! Eh, Mr.
Rodney?"

"Ripping? Ripping what? Good God, am I ripping anything?" gasped Mr.
Rodney, who was fussy and fat and generally futile. He seemed to grow
suddenly uncomfortable, as if ripping was a habit with him.