On his return to England Harold found that time had wrought many changes.  To begin with, the editor of The Evening Surprise had passed on to The Morning Exclamation.

“You had better take his place,” said the ducal proprietor to Harold.

“Right,” said Harold.  “I suppose I shall have to resign my post at the office?”

“Just as you like.  I don’t see why you should.”

“I should miss the cricket,” said Harold wistfully, “and the salary.  I’ll go round and see what I can arrange.”

But there were also changes at the office.  Harold had been rising steadily in salary and seniority during his absence, and he found to his delight that he was now a Principal Clerk.  He found, too, that he had acquired quite a reputation in the office for quickness and efficiency in his new work.

The first thing to arrange about was his holiday.  He had had no holiday for more than a year, and there were some eight weeks owing to him.

“Hullo,” said the Assistant Secretary as Harold came in, “you’re looking well.  I suppose you manage to get away for the week-ends?”

“I’ve been away on sick leave for some time,” said Harold pathetically.

“Have you?  You’ve kept it very secret.  Come out and have lunch with me, and we’ll do a matinee afterwards.”

Harold went out with him happily.  It would be pleasant to accept the editorship of The Evening Surprise without giving up the Governmental work which was so dear to him, and the Assistant Secretary’s words made this possible for a year or so anyhow.  Then, when his absence from the office first began to be noticed, it would be time to think of retiring on an adequate pension.

THE ACTOR

Mr Levinski, the famous actor-manager, dragged himself from beneath the car, took the snow out of his mouth, and swore heartily.  Mortal men are liable to motor accidents; even kings’ cars have backfired; but it seems strange that actor-managers are not specially exempt from these occurrences.  Mr Levinski was not only angry; he was also a little shocked.  When an actor-manager has to walk two miles to the nearest town on a winter evening one may be pardoned a doubt as to whether all is quite right with the world.

But the completest tragedy has its compensations for some one.  The pitiable arrival of Mr Levinski at “The Duke’s Head,” unrecognized and with his fur coat slightly ruffled, might make a sceptic of the most devout optimist, and yet Eustace Merrowby can never look back upon that evening without a sigh of thankfulness; for to him it was the beginning of his career.  The story has often been told since—­in about a dozen weekly papers, half a dozen daily papers and three dozen provincial papers—­but it will always bear telling again.

There was no train to London that night, and Mr Levinski had been compelled to put up at “The Duke’s Head.”  However, he had dined and was feeling slightly better.  He summoned the manager of the hotel.