Mr Duncan Garth stood at his windows in park Lane and looked out. He was a man of forty-five, unusually tall and broad, with a strong, clean-shaven face.

"I should rather like," he said, "to buy Hyde Park."

His secretary, seated at a table behind him, chuckled.

"You are quite right, Ferguson," said Garth. "I can't buy Hyde Park or the National Gallery. But I presume I've got the money value of both. Wouldn't you say so, Ferguson?"

Ferguson was a slender young man. He looked far too young for the important post of secretary to Mr Garth, and much younger than he really was. His scrupulous care as to his personal appearance rather amused Garth, who was careless in such matters almost to the point of untidiness.

Ferguson lit a cigarette and reflected. "I should say not," he said. "Hyde Park alone, of course, you could buy, if it were for sale. I don't know what the National Gallery would figure out at, but silly people give absurd sums for paint and canvas nowadays, and there's any amount of it there. You might be able to do them both, but I should doubt it."

"Well, I'm going to give a luncheon-party, anyhow."

"Yes," said Ferguson, drily, "you can afford to do that. Whom am I to ask?"

Garth consulted some memoranda on the back of an envelope. "I'm going to mix 'em up a bit," he said. "You remember that girl in the post-office yesterday?"

"The one who asked if you'd got any eyes in your head?"

"Yes. One should not, of course, hand in telegrams to the money-order department. There was something in the bitter fury of the woman that interested me. Naturally, I don't know her name and address, but I suppose you can get that."

"Of course," said Ferguson, making a shorthand note.

"Then I must have old Lady Longshore. I should like an actor-manager, too. Could you suggest?"

"Want him for his egotism?"

"Quite so," said Mr Garth. "Of course."

"Then you can't do better than Eustace Richards. A fluent talker. But you've met him."

"So I have," said Garth, "now I come to think of it. He will do admirably. Then I should like Archdeacon Pringle and his wife, and that chap I went to about my throat."

"Let me see," said Ferguson—"that was Sir Edwin Goodchild, wasn't it? A good sort—I know him well. Any more?"

"Yes. Lots more. I want that man who sweeps the crossing just outside the club. He always seemed to me to be full of character. His name is Timbs, and I don't know his address. But in this case perhaps you'd better not write. See him personally. Could you get me a nice Suffragette?"

"Certainly," said Ferguson. "Any particular one?"

"No. Just an ordinary, plain Suffragette. Also the editor of Happy Homes. Likewise the Unconquerable Belgian. I don't know at which of the halls he's wrestling now, but you can find out."

"Suppose his trainer won't let him come?"

"My dear Ferguson, you know very well how to deal with a case like that. There are solid inducements that influence opinion."

"True. Would you like the girl who does my nails?"

"Your manicurist? Yes, that's an excellent idea. We shall also need a Cabinet Minister, a nice specimen of a modern gilded youth, and somebody prominent in the Salvation Army."

The list was finally made out. Ferguson looked at it reflectively. "I suppose you wouldn't ask me too," he said. "I wish to goodness you would!"

"You can come if you've got any decent clothes," said Garth, sardonically. "Behave yourself decently, mind. Don't giggle."

"Right," said Ferguson. "This will be the day of my life. You know all your servants will give notice, of course. But that doesn't matter, you can get others."

"It might simplify things," said Mr Garth, "if I took some rooms at the Ritz and gave the luncheon there. Arrange that for me, will you?"

"Certainly. And the date?"

"You'll want a little time to get the gang together. Say four weeks from to-day."

Mr Ferguson needed all his tact to get them together. Lady Longshore, it is true, expressed herself as willing to meet anybody except her own relations. But Eustace Richards, on being told of the idea of the party, said quite frankly that he preferred to mix with his equals. "The devil of it is to find 'em," said Ferguson. Richards, still frank, admitted that in the present state of dramatic art there might be something in that. He decided to attend. A Suffragette was caught by the bait of the Cabinet Minister, who subsequently refused on hearing of the Suffragette. Sir Edwin Goodchild, the editor of Happy Homes, the manicure lady, and Colonel Harriet Stokes, of the Salvation Army, accepted at once. Mr Timbs, who swept the crossing outside the club, was suspicious and took longer to decide. "Look 'ere, Mr Ferguson," he said, "is it strite? You aren't gettin' anythin' up for me, eh? I've got a good suit o' clothes, so far as that goes; one I've kept for funerals, so far. But I don't want to put that on for nothing. Barrin' sells, now, is it strite?" With renewed assurances Ferguson secured him. The lady of the post-office began with a direct refusal, which started in the third person and trailed off into the first. It said that she had not the honour of Mr Garth's acquaintance, and that she was at a loss to understand, and so on. Ferguson returned to the attack, and, metaphorically, dangled the Dowager Countess of Longshore before her. This failing, he changed his fly, and caught her with the Archdeacon. The Archdeacon had known her father, and seemed to Miss Bostock to guarantee everything. It was not absolutely fair, as the Archdeacon had a professional engagement in the North on that day, and had been compelled to refuse. Mrs Pringle, however, would be present, and, as Ferguson said in self-justification, Mrs Pringle was more archidiaconal than any archdeacon living. The Unconquerable Belgian accepted in a letter written by Mr Savage, his trainer. Mr Savage expressed a hope that the Unconquerable would not be pressed to drink, and that he would be able to get away for a professional engagement at four o'clock.

On the day appointed, Lady Longshore was the first guest to be announced.

"Came early on purpose," she said. "This is to be a freak lunch, so Fergy says, and I want to get the hang of it."

"It's simplicity itself," said Garth. "You are going to meet people whom you have never met before. Conventions that would interfere with this are abandoned. You will not, for instance, sit next to me."

"Nor to me," added Mr Ferguson. "But bear up."

"Don't be a fool, Fergy, and tell me all about it."

Ferguson glanced at a plan of the table. "On your right hand, Lady Longshore, you will have Mr Timbs, who sweeps one of the principal crossings in St James's Street, on your left will be Mr Pudbrook, who edits that serviceable kitchen weekly, Happy Homes. But the table is oval, and we hope that the conversation will be general."

"Well, it's not half a bad idea. Let me look at the rest of 'em." She snatched the plan from the secretary's hand. "Thank Heaven, I haven't got Eustace Richards—these mummers make me angry. Here, who's this?"

Monsieur Renard had just been announced.

"That," said Ferguson, in a low voice, "is Monsieur Renard, better known as the Unconquerable Belgian. You may have seen him on the stage."

"Quite a good deal of him—mÊme trop," said the Countess.

In the meantime the Belgian extended a hand like a twenty-pound York ham. He was an enormous athlete, whose sweet temper had not yet been injured by his prolonged war with fat. He was of great simplicity, and his forehead ran back at a gentle slope from his eyebrows to the back of his head. Intelligent? Mais que voulez-vous que je vous dise? Can one have everything? His clothes were of the best quality and of the latest fashion. Let us be content.

Duncan Garth grasped some of the extended hand. "This is most kind of you, Monsieur Renard. We have all admired your prowess, and are delighted to have the chance to know you a little better."

The Belgian was slow and self-possessed. "Thank—you," he said.

"We shall have to behave ourselves," laughed Garth, "or you'll be throwing all of us out of the window."

"But no," said the Unconquerable, seriously. "That will not be so. My manager does not permit me to do anything of that kind, unless arranged with him."

"It would be an excellent advertisement," said Garth. "Just you think it over." He turned to some new arrivals.

At this moment Ferguson laid a manicured hand on the Belgian's almighty arm. "Pardon me, Monsieur Renard, but the Countess of Longshore is most anxious that you should be presented to her."

"That is all right. I kom," said the placid wrestler.

The new arrivals were Miss Bostock of the post-office, Sir Edwin Goodchild of Harley Street, and Mr Pudbrook of Happy Homes. Miss Bostock was tailor-made, smooth-haired, rather hygienic about the boots, and wore pince-nez. She looked as if she would have been handsomer if she had been happier. Her voice shook a little as she responded to Mr Garth's most respectful salutation, but her nervousness was not too apparent.

"Is—is the Archdeacon here, Mr Garth?" she inquired. "He used to know my father slightly."

"The Archdeacon regrets—a conference at York. But that is Mrs Pringle just coming in. Let me take you up to her."

Sir Edwin Goodchild took Mr Garth's secretary aside. "I say, Fergy," he said, "what the deuce is all this?"

"This?" said Ferguson, innocently. "This is a private reception-room at the Ritz. Style, Louis Quinze or thereabouts. Through those folding doors, when at the appointed time they are opened, we enter the luncheon-room. There we eat huitres Lucullus, consommÉ norvÉgienne, filets—"

"Now, don't talk nonsense."

"Nonsense, man? Considering I constructed the menu myself, I—"

"Yes, but the people. Look at that lot just come in."

"My poor lost sheep, I'll tell you just two things. Firstly, we are eccentric millionaires. Secondly, you will be seated at lunch between Colonel Harriet Stokes, of the Salvation Army, and Miss Paul, a manicure lady."

"Let me out. This is a nightmare."

"No, it's a fact, and I'll prove it to you by introducing to your kind attention Mr Pudbrook, the editor of Happy Homes. He somewhat interferes with your profession by giving remedies for black-heads and indigestion in his paper on alternate weeks. But don't let that prejudice you against him."

Certainly, the "lot" to which Sir Edwin referred looked strange enough in their present entourage. Mr Timbs wore a complete suit of black broadcloth, alleviated by new brown shoes, white socks, and a very large crimson silk handkerchief. His expression combined curiously the confident and the furtive. Those in his immediate neighbourhood were conscious of a blended fragrance of benzine and yellow soap. A white-faced woman with big eyes, severely uniformed, was in conversation with him, and Mr Timbs was choosing his language with unusual care. Miss Edith Stunt, the Suffragette, had faced meetings in Trafalgar Square, and had nothing more to fear. Her fanatical eyes looked round eagerly for an opportunity to say a good word. At present Duncan Garth was talking to Mrs Gust, a nicely-dressed lady, slightly mad. The death of her husband under treatment had not shaken her faith in Christian Science, any more than his life had shaken her belief in matrimony. Garth himself had discovered her, and had directed that she should be of the party.

Miss Vera Paul, the manicurist, was talking to Ferguson. She was a remarkably pretty girl, but there were many others who wished to speak to Ferguson. He handed her over to Mrs Pringle, and promised her that she should be next to him at luncheon. The Unconquerable Belgian bore down on Ferguson, carrying in his hand a copy of the menu, with which Ferguson had thoughtfully provided him. He tapped it with a heavy finger and said plaintively: "You excuse me. I cannot eat moch this food." Ferguson's suggestion of a porter-house steak was accepted. At the same moment Timbs approached him with care, as of one who stalked big game.

"You'll keep your eye on me, sir," said Timbs. "You told me it was strite, and it's to you I looks. I don't want to do anything I didn't ought."

"My dear chap," said Ferguson, with candour, "we want you to do the things you didn't ought."

Timbs would have pursued the conversation, but he was put aside by Miss Edith Stunt, who wished to know if she would have an opportunity to say a few words to the company. And she was put aside by Harriet Stokes, who wished to know if she could send round a collecting-card. And Harriet Stokes was obliterated by Mr Pudbrook, who wished to know if he could get a few words on private business with Mr Garth.

Then came the arrival of the last guest. Mr Eustace Richards made a splendid entrance; he was a quarter of an hour late and gracefully apologetic. "An unexpected rehearsal, my dear fellow," he said to Garth in a clearly-articulated whisper that carried to every part of the room, "Royal command for next Friday. Quite unexpected. Gratifying, eh?"

The big folding-doors opened. Ferguson flew around with his plan of the table, showing people where they were to sit. So far Mr Eustace Richards had hardly glanced at the company. He did not look much at the audience when he was acting, and he was almost always acting. But now he murmured to Garth: "My dear fellow, you warned me—but what have you done?"

"Don't quite know yet," said Garth, drily.

Mr Ferguson had his own little suite of rooms at the house in Park Lane. He dined at his club that night, and was back again by nine o'clock to check once more some figures of considerable importance. The work only took him a few minutes, and he was just finishing it when Duncan Garth entered, wearing the dinner-jacket and black tie of the domestic life.

"Hallo!" said Ferguson. "Thought you were dining at the Silchesters'."

"So I was," said Garth, dejectedly, "but I didn't." He selected a cigar from his secretary's cabinet.

"Cheaper for you, anyhow," said Ferguson. "His Grace meant to borrow money to-night."

"I'm not a fool," said Garth, wearily, "and I'm not lending money to the Duke of Silchester. How did you think it went this afternoon?"

"What? The lunch? Of course it was very, very funny."

"Or slightly tragic," said Garth, as he took an easy-chair. "Put people into new circumstances and you can always judge them. I've got a low opinion of the human race to-night, Fergy."

"But there were nice points," said Ferguson. "I like the self-centred, complete indifference of our friend Renard. He's a headless Hercules. I mean, his head is the only thing against him. It's a loss, too, that is easily excused. You saw how Lady Longshore, and Mrs Pringle, and Colonel Harriet Stokes of the Salvation Army were anxious to please that lump of beef."

"Of course I saw it. That's one of the reasons why I call the thing a tragedy. By the way, you can go over our list and draw a line through the Archdeacon and his wife."

"Certainly," said Ferguson. "Might one ask why?"

"Because I hate the type," said Garth. "Miss Bostock's father was a curate, had been at college with the Archdeacon, and knew him fairly well. Mrs Pringle snubbed Miss Bostock. She was afraid she could not remember all the curates that her husband might have happened to meet. She also snubbed Pudbrook. When she saw the nature of the party she would have left but for Lady Longshore, who, to do her credit, does not care one curse about anybody on this earth or elsewhere. She was almost affectionate to Timbs when Lady Longshore repeated his stories. She was quite nice to your manicurist girl. She recognised the charm of the Unconquerable Belgian. But she snubbed Miss Bostock and she snubbed Pudbrook. She admits the hopeless and snubs the hopeful. She is a mixture of the coward and the bully. I don't like it, and I've no more to do with it. Strike them off, Fergy. I shall feel happier when it's done."

Ferguson took down an alphabetical list, turned up the letter "P," and put a black ink cross where it was required. "I wonder what this has cost you," he said cheerfully.

"You paid the bill. Nothing, anyhow."

"The Salvationist got a subscription, and so did Mrs Gust. The Suffragette also hit you. I think you have promised to be manicured. Mr Pudbrook owns half his paper, and the printer owns the other half. They are not doing too well, and they are thinking of a limited company. You know best how far you have come into it. Eustace Richards, in spite of his jabber, has done no good with his last two things. He stayed with you for some time. If he was not suggesting that you should release him from the people who are financing him at present, then, of course, it's my mistake."

"You're a clear-sighted chap," said Garth, "and you've mentioned nothing which is very far out. There are even some things which you might have mentioned and have omitted. They don't really matter. I've done what was wanted. I've even shown Lady Longshore how to make the money she wants. But that's not what's worrying me."

"Give it a name," said Ferguson.

The door opened. "A young person of the name of Bostock wishes to see you, sir," said the butler. "I have told her that you are not in the habit of seeing people at this time of the evening, but she seemed rather pressing."

"In here, please," said Garth.

"Let's see," said Ferguson, "Miss Bostock left before the show was over."

"She did," said Garth; "and I want to know why."

In the meantime the butler had returned to Miss Bostock with a totally different manner. So far as the rules went, he had made no mistake, but there were exceptions, of course. On sight, Miss Bostock was a young person. On further investigation she was a young lady whom Mr Duncan Garth wished to see, and that made a difference.

She entered the room with perfect composure, wearing the same clothes that she had worn at the luncheon-party.

"Perhaps I shouldn't have come," she said, "but there are things I want to say. I want to know why you did that."

"You'll sit down, won't you?" said Garth. "What is it precisely we are talking about?"

"Why did you give that luncheon? Why did you make me come to it? I refused at first, you know. Then Mr Ferguson came to see me and persuaded me. He told me the Archdeacon was coming, and that seemed like a mutual acquaintance. I think if he had been there he wouldn't have been as rude to me as his wife was. I dare say, if I had told her I was a general servant, she would have been as sweet to me as she was to that half-drunken crossing-sweeper, or that Belgian brute, or some of the other people whom you ought not to have asked me to meet."

"Yes," said Mr Ferguson, cheerfully. "Lady Longshore also is very unconventional, isn't she?"

"I'm not speaking about that," said Miss Bostock, doggedly. "The rudeness of that lady to me is a small personal matter easily forgotten. It's the ghastly humiliation of the whole thing that makes me sick and savage."

There was a moment's silence. "Ferguson," said Garth, "there was that letter."

"Yes," said Ferguson, "I'll see to it," and passed out of the room.

"Now, then," said Garth. "What's the trouble, Miss Bostock?"

"The trouble is that the whole of us were merely a show got up for your amusement. You gave us a lunch that we might make fools of ourselves. Fish out of water are very absurd, aren't they? But it's cruel to take them out of water and to watch them dying, all the same. That luncheon-party was the most brutal thing done in London to-day, and you were the brute who did it. What harm was I doing? Why did you drag me into it?"

"Five or six weeks ago," said Garth, "I met you for the first time. It was in the post-office. You asked me if I'd got any eyes in my head."

"I remember now," said Miss Bostock. "I ought not to have said it. I think the tick of the telegraph gets on my nerves. You were not the first, too, and the notices were up clear enough. Still, why couldn't you have reported me? That would have been the right way to punish me."

"No," said Garth, "I did not want to punish you. I distinctly liked the spirit and the temper with which you spoke to me. You will understand, perhaps, that I get rather too much of the other kind of thing. I had no wish whatever to humiliate you. I did wish to amuse myself. You may be glad to hear that I have not done it. Is there anything I can do?"

"Nothing now," said the girl, contemptuously.

"I think there is," said Garth, and rang the bell. He sent the servant to fetch Mr Ferguson.

"I say, Ferguson," said Garth, "can you tell me what the price of that luncheon was?"

"Eight shillings a head, exclusive of the wine, of course."

"Let me see, Miss Bostock," said Garth, "I think you drank water."

"Yes, yes, I see it now," said Miss Bostock, eagerly. She fumbled clumsily at her pocket, and produced an emaciated purse. She took out half a sovereign. "There is your money. Can you give me change?"

Garth did not carry money. Ferguson handed Garth a florin, and Garth gravely handed it to Miss Bostock.

"Now I can breathe again," she said. "I am going now. Good-night."

Garth followed her out, along the corridor and into the hall. Servants were waiting at the door. A sign from Garth dismissed them. As he held the door open for her, she turned to him, hesitated, and then spoke.

"I thought at lunch to-day that the doctor was the only gentleman there. I—I am not so sure about it."

"If I were ten years younger," said Garth, "I think I should ask you to marry me. Good-night."

He stood watching her as she passed down the steps into Park Lane.