give me a friendly slap on the back if you find we get along smoothly
in the course of the day."

"Which of your names shall it be?" Mr. Hethcote asked, humouring this
odd lad. "Claude?"

"No. Not Claude. The Primitive Christians said Claude was a finicking
French name. Call me Amelius, and I shall begin to feel at home again.
If you're in a hurry, cut it down to three letters (as they did at
Tadmor), and call me Mel."

"Very good," said Mr. Hethcote. "Now, my friend Amelius (or Mel), I am
going to speak out plainly, as you do. The Primitive Christian
Socialists must have great confidence in their system of education, to
turn you adrift in the world without a companion to look after you."

"You've hit it, sir," Amelius answered coolly. "They have unlimited
confidence in their system of education. And I'm a proof of it."

"You have relations in London, I suppose?" Mr. Hethcote proceeded.

For the first time the face of Amelius showed a shadow of sadness on
it.

"I have relations," he said. "But I have promised never to claim their
hospitality. 'They are hard and worldly; and they will make you hard
and worldly, too.' That's what my father said to me on his deathbed."
He took off his hat when he mentioned his father's death, and came to a
sudden pause--with his head bent down, like a man absorbed in thought.
In less than a minute he put on his hat again, and looked up with his