his associates he referred to them as "His lordship easing off a bit."
"Don't you know" demanded Lord Drewitt as he slowly and reluctantly swung his legs from beneath the bedclothes and sat on the edge of the bed. "Don't you know that all progress, material and intellectual, arises from discontent?"
"Yes, my lord, I believe so," said Hoskins, "I'm putting out that new morning-coat and vest for to-day, my lord."
"Hoskins, you're hopeless." Lord Drewitt rose and proceeded once more to stretch himself. "Here am I discussing higher ethics, and you can't rise to giddier altitudes than morning-coats and vests. You've probably been reading Carlyle."
Hoskins smiled good-humouredly, and Lord Drewitt disappeared into the bathroom, where for the next quarter of an hour his monologue was accompanied by splashings and the rushing of water.
"I remember," he said, reappearing and slipping into the dressing-gown that Hoskins held out for him, "you once said that life held compensations. I know of only one, your coffee," and he seated himself at the small breakfast tray beside the bed. "It's the only thing that preserves intact the slender thread of my life."
Hoskins beamed upon his master.
"I think it was William Blake who said that a man's soul is expressed in his work. Your soul, Hoskins, demonstrates itself in your coffee. I can forgive almost anything, even your damned opti-
