“I don’t.”

“Well, anyhow,” he went on after this check, “I’ve sold her the entire bag of tricks. What do you think I’m going to buy?”

“What?”

“A motor-car, old man!”

In those days the person who bought a motor-car was deemed a fearless adventurer of romantic tendencies. And Sullivan so deemed himself. The very word “motor-car” then had a strange and thrilling romantic sound with it.

“The deuce you are!” I exclaimed.

“I am,” said he, happy in having impressed me. He took my arm as though we had been intimate for a thousand years, and led me fearlessly past the swelling menials within the gate to the club smoking-room, and put me into a grandfather’s