Tote to say “Hullo!” at the other end of the line. Everything in the office was suavely and comfortably the best of its kind. Mr. Porlock called himself a General Agent, and nobody who entered this room could doubt that he made his agency pay. From the carpet on the floor to the three or four paintings on the walls, everything declared that solid balance at the bank which needs no vulgar advertisement but makes itself felt along the avenues of taste. The richness was a subdued richness. Gregory Porlock’s. clothes were part of it. Admirable in themselves, they not only did not have to atone for nature’s defects, but actually gained from nature’s bounty. He was an exceedingly personable man, rather florid of complexion, in marked and becoming contrast to the colour of his dark eyes and a head of very thick iron-grey hair. He might be in his middle forties, and he might be, and probably was, a couple of stone heavier than he had been ten years before, but it was not unbecoming and he carried it with an air.

The line crackled and Mr. Tote said, “ ’Ullo!”

It is not to be supposed that Mr. Tote was in the habit of dropping his h’s. If he had ever done so, it was a long time ago, but like a great many other people he still said “ ’Ullo!” when confronted by a telephone.

Gregory Porlock smiled as affably as if Mr. Tote could see him.

“Hullo, Tote-how are you? Gregory Porlock speaking.” The telephone crackled. “And Mrs. Tote? I want you both to come down for the week end… My dear fellow, I simply won’t take no for an answer.”

The telephone crackled again. With the receiver at his ear, Gregory Porlock was aware of Mr. Tote excusing himself.

“I don’t see that we really can-the wife’s none too well-”

“My dear fellow, I’m sorry to hear that But you know, sometimes a change-and though the Grange is an old house, we’ve got central heating everywhere and I can promise to keep her warm. There will be a pleasant party too. Do you know the Martin Oakleys?”