Ignoring my assurance that I had an important appointment to keep, he linked his arm closely in mine and dragged me with him in the direction from which I had come.  How he pattered and chattered and flattered.  He daubed me over with flattery as I have seen bill-stickers brush a hoarding over with paste.  Never in my life had I felt so small, so mean and such a perfect fool, for though I own I have no objection to an occasional lollipop of praise, I must say I loathe it in lumps the size of a jelly-fish.  Yet such is the fare on which JESSAMY compels me to subsist.  And the annoying part of it was that every lump which he crammed down my throat contained an inferential compliment to himself, which I was forced either to accept, or in declining it to appear a churl.  I was never more churlish, never less satisfied with myself.  Amongst other things we spoke of the affairs of “The Dustheap,” a little Club of which we were both members.  JESSAMY opined it was going to the dogs.  “Just look,” he said, “at the men they’ve got on the Committee; mere nobodies.  I’ve always wondered why you are not on it.  Men like you and me wouldn’t make the ridiculous mistakes the present lot are constantly making.  Fancy their electing MUMPLEY, a regular outsider, without enough manners for a school-boy.  I really don’t care about being in the same room with him.”  At this very moment, by one of those curious coincidences which invariably happen, the abused MUMPLEY himself, a wealthy but otherwise inoffensive stockbroker, hove in sight.  “There comes the brute himself,” said JESSAMY; and in another moment his arms were round MUMPLEY’s neck, and he was protesting, with all the fervour of a heartfelt conviction, that MUMPLEY was the one man of all others for whom his heart had been yearning.  That being so, I left them together, and departed to my business.

Now does JESSAMY imagine that that kind of thing makes him a favourite?  It must be admitted that he is not very artistic in his methods; and I fancy he must sometimes perceive, if I may use a homely phrase, that he doesn’t go down.  But the poor beggar can’t help himself.  He is driven by a force which he finds it impossible to resist into the cruel snares that are spread for the over-amiable.  You, my dear GUSH, are that force, and to you, therefore, the sugary JESSAMY owes his failure to win the appreciation which he courts so ardently.

And now I think I have relieved my mind of a sufficient load for the time being.  If I can remember anything else that might interest you, you may count upon me to address you again.  Permit me in the meantime to subscribe myself with all proper curtness,

Yours. &c.  DIOGENES ROBINSON.

* * * * *

“THE PRODIGY SON.”

[Illustration:  Much put out.]