amateur junk shop. Side by side with a Gutenberg Bible for which
rival collectors would have bidden without a limit, you would
come on a bullet from the field of Waterloo, one of a consignment
of ten thousand shipped there for the use of tourists by a
Birmingham firm. Each was equally attractive to its owner.

"My dear Mr. Peters," said Lord Emsworth sunnily, advancing into
the room, "I trust I am not unpunctual. I have been lunching at
my club."

"I'd have asked you to lunch here," said Mr. Peters, "but you
know how it is with me . . . I've promised the doctor I'll give
those nuts and grasses of his a fair trial, and I can do it
pretty well when I'm alone with Aline; but to have to sit by and
see somebody else eating real food would be trying me too high."

Lord Emsworth murmured sympathetically. The other's digestive
tribulations touched a ready chord. An excellent trencherman
himself, he understood what Mr. Peters must suffer.

"Too bad!" he said.

Mr. Peters turned the conversation into other channels.

"These are my scarabs," he said.

Lord Emsworth adjusted his glasses, and the mild smile
disappeared from his face, to be succeeded by a set look. A stage
director of a moving-picture firm would have recognized the look.
Lord Emsworth was registering interest--interest which he