upholsterer, or the gilding and tile work of the modern decorator, who ravages upon beauty as a fungus upon a fruit tree.  Whatever there was in Mr. Bellingham’s rooms was good; much of it was unique, and the whole was harmonious.  Rare editions were bound by famous binders, and if the twopenny-halfpenny productions of some little would-be modern poet, resplendent with vellum and aesthetic greenliness of paper, occasionally found their way to the table, they never travelled as far as the shelves.  Mr. Bellingham had fools enough about him to absorb his spare trash.

On this particular occasion the old gentleman was seated in an arm-chair at his table, and Claudius, as aforesaid, had established himself upon the sofa.  He looked very grave and smoked thoughtfully.

“I wish I knew what to do,” he said.  “Mr. Bellingham, do you think I could be of any use?”

“If I had not thought so, I would not have told you—­I could have let you find it out for yourself from the papers.  You can be of a great deal of use.”

“Do you advise me to go to St. Petersburg and see about it then?”

“Of course I do.  Start at once.  You can get the necessary steps taken in no time, if you go now.”

“I am ready.  But how in the world can I get the thing done?”

“Letters.  Your English friend over there will give you letters to the English Ambassador; he is Lord Fitzdoggin—­cousin of the Duke’s.  And I will give you some papers that will be of use.  I know lots of people in Petersburg.  Why, it’s as plain as a pikestaff.  Besides, you know the proverb, mitte sapientem et nihil dicas. That means then when you send a wise man you must not dictate to him.”

“You flatter me.  But I would rather have your advice, if that is what you call ‘dictating.’  I am not exactly a fool, but then, I am not very wise either.”

“No one is very wise, and we are all fools compared to some people,” said Mr. Bellingham.  “If anybody wanted a figurehead for a new Ship of Fools, I sometimes think a portrait of myself would be singularly appropriate.  There are times when I should fix upon a friend for the purpose.  Mermaid—­half fish—­figurehead, half man, half fool.  That’s a very good idea.”

“Very good—­for the friend.  Meanwhile, you know, it is I who am going on the errand.  If you do not make it clear to me it will be a fool’s errand.”

“It is perfectly clear, my dear sir,” insisted Mr. Bellingham.  “You go to St. Petersburg; you get an audience—­you can do that by means of the letters; you lay the matter before the Czar, and request justice.  Either you get it or you do not.  That is the beauty of an autocratic country.”

“How about a free country?” asked Claudius.

“You don’t get it,” replied his host grimly.  Claudius laughed a cloud of smoke into the air.

“Why is that?” he asked idly, hoping to launch Mr. Bellingham into further aphorisms and paradoxes.