of tricks to my debit. He had mixed them up with my sins--with my
acts of hypocrisy, vanity, self-indulgence. Under the head of
Charity he had but one item to my credit for the past six months: my
giving up my seat inside a tramcar, late one wet night, to a dismal-
looking old woman, who had not had even the politeness to say "thank
you," she seemed just half asleep. According to this idiot, all the
time and money I had spent responding to these charitable appeals had
been wasted.

I was not angry with him, at first. I was willing to regard what he
had done as merely a clerical error.

"You have got the items down all right," I said (I spoke quite
friendly), "but you have made a slight mistake--we all do now and
again; you have put them down on the wrong side of the book. I only
hope this sort of thing doesn't occur often."

What irritated me as much as anything was the grave, passionless face
the Angel turned upon me.

"There is no mistake," he answered.

"No mistake!" I cried. "Why, you blundering--"

He closed the book with a weary sigh.

I felt so mad with him, I went to snatch it out of his hand. He did
not do anything that I was aware of, but at once I began falling.
The faint luminosity beneath me grew, and then the lights of London
seemed shooting up to meet me. I was coming down on the clock tower