"Show him up," said Mrs. Bergmann, quite naturally, as though she had
been expecting the visitor. She wondered at her own behaviour, and
seemed to herself to be acting inevitably, as one does in dreams.

Mr. Satan was shown in. He had a professional air about him, but not
of the kind that suggests needy or even learned professionalism. He was
dark; his features were sharp and regular, his eyes keen, his complexion
pale, his mouth vigorous, and his chin prominent. He was well dressed in
a frock coat, black tie, and patent leather boots. He would never have
been taken for a conjurer or a shop-walker, but he might have been taken
for a slightly depraved Art-photographer who had known better days. He
sat down near the tea-table opposite Mrs. Bergmann, holding his top hat,
which had a slight mourning band round it, in his hand.

"I understand, madam," he spoke with an even American intonation,
"you wish to be supplied with a guest who will make all other
luncheon-parties look, so to speak, like thirty cents."

"Yes, that is just what I want," answered Mrs. Bergmann, who continued
to be surprised at herself.

"Well, I reckon there's no one living who'd suit," said Mr. Satan, "and
I'd better supply you with a celebrity of _a_ former generation." He
then took out a small pocket-book from his coat pocket, and quickly
turning over its leaves he asked in a monotonous tone: "Would you like a
Philosopher? Anaxagoras, Aristotle, Aurelius, M.?"

"Oh! no," answered Mrs. Bergmann with decision, "they would ruin any
luncheon."