It was, I imagine, the presence of the cuspidor which tickled Mr. Barclay Corbet's fancy and provoked him to the series of telegrams which he despatched to Ben. They came at intervals for a day or so. I can remember a few, with the replies:

Corbet Bibury to Beckancal London:
Please explain curious article by library fire-place.
Beckancal London to Corbet Bibury:
Sorry if I have been over-zealous.
——
Corbet Bibury to Beckancal London:
Do not seem to have any bellows.
Beckancal London to Corbet Bibury:
Look in oak chest in hall.
——
Corbet Bibury to Beckancal London:
Gardener clamouring for secateur.
Beckancal London to Corbet Bibury:
In cupboard in summer-house.
——
Corbet Bibury to Beckancal London:
Cannot find any shaving paper.
Beckancal London to Corbet Bibury:
Tear up "Times."

And then came Mr. Barclay Corbet in person to express his absolute satisfaction and to make Ben and her staff a handsome present, and then to spend some hours downstairs in fixing up his shelves properly.

"Whoever thought I wanted an 'EncyclopÆdia Britannica,'" he said, "is the world's worst clairvoyant. What I want is the works of A. Trollope. They're good to read and they're good to send you to sleep."