"I suppose so," answered Mr. Fyshe quite carelessly. "All
these fellows are." (Mr. Fyshe generally referred to the
British aristocracy as "these fellows.") "Land, you know,
feudal estates; sheer robbery, I call it. How the
working-class, the proletariat, stand for such tyranny
is more than I can see. Mark my words, Furlong, some day
they'll rise and the whole thing will come to a sudden
end."

Mr. Fyshe was here launched upon his favourite topic;
but he interrupted himself, just for a moment, to speak
to the waiter.

"What the devil do you mean," he said, "by serving
asparagus half-cold?"

"Very sorry, sir," said the waiter, "shall I take it
out?"

"Take it out? Of course take it out, and see that you
don't serve me stuff of that sort again, or I'll report
you."

"Very sorry, sir," said the waiter.

Mr. Fyshe looked at the vanishing waiter with contempt
upon his features. "These pampered fellows are getting
unbearable." he said. "By Gad, if I had my way I'd fire
the whole lot of them: lock 'em out, put 'em on the