“It was most interesting,” said Zora mendaciously.

“I thought you’d find it so.  I’ve brought something in my pocket for you.”

He searched and brought out a couple of little red celluloid boxes, which he handed to Septimus.

“There are two sample boxes of the cure—­one for Mrs. Middlemist and one for yourself, Mr. Dix.  You both have a touch of the sun.  Put it on to-night.  Let it stay there for five minutes; then rub off with a smooth, dry towel.  In the morning you’ll see the miracle.”  He looked at Septimus earnestly.  “Quite sure you haven’t anything in the nature of an eruption on you?”

“Good Lord, no.  Of course not,” said Septimus, startled out of a dreamy contemplation of the two little red boxes.

“That’s a pity.  It would have been so nice to cure you.  Ah!” said he, with a keen glance up the room.  “There’s Lord Rebenham.  I must enquire after his eczema.  You won’t forget me now.  Clem Sypher.  Friend of Humanity.”

He bowed and withdrew, walking kindly and broad-shouldered trough the crowd, like a benevolent deity, the latest thing in AEsculapiuses, among his devotees.

“What am I to do with these?” asked Septimus, holding out the boxes.

“You had better give me mine, or heaven knows what will become of it,” said Zora, and she put it in her little chain bag, with her handkerchief, purse, and powder-puff.

The next morning she received an enormous basket of roses and a bundle of newspapers; also a card, bearing the inscription “Mr. Clem Sypher.  The Kurhaus.  Kilburn Priory, N.W.”  She frowned ever so little at the flowers.  To accept them would be to accept Mr. Sypher’s acquaintance in his private and Kilburn Priory capacity.  To send them back would be ungracious, seeing that he had saved her a hundred francs and had cured her imaginary sunburn.  She took up the card and laughed.  It was like him to name his residence “The Kurhaus.”  She would never know him in his private capacity, for the simple reason that he hadn’t one.  The roses were an advertisement.  So Turner unpacked the basket, and while Zora was putting the roses into water she wondered whether Mr. Sypher’s house was decorated with pictorial advertisements of the cure instead of pictures.  Her woman’s instinct, however, caused the reflection that the roses must have cost more than all the boxes of the cure she could buy in a lifetime.

Septimus was dutifully waiting for her in the hall.  She noted that he was more spruce than usual, in a new gray cashmere suit, and that his brown boots shone dazzlingly, like agates.  They went out together, and the first person who met their eyes was the Friend of Humanity sunning himself in the square and feeding the pigeons with bread crumbs from a paper bag.  As soon as he saw Zora he emptied his bag and crossed over.

“Good morning, Mrs. Middlemist.  Good morning, Mr. Dix.  Used the cure?  I see you have, Mrs. Middlemist.  Isn’t it wonderful?  If you’d only go about Monte Carlo with an inscription ‘Try Sypher’s Cure!’ What an advertisement!  I’d have you one done in diamonds!  And how did you find it, Mr. Dix?”