castle was a clock, and this clock was a realistic timepiece, whose
fingers moved and told the hour. Two of the oriel windows of the
castle were realistic holes in its masonry; through one of them you
could put a key to wind up the clock, and through the other you could
put a key to wind up the secret musical box, which played sixteen
different tunes. He had bought this handsome relic of the Victorian
era (not less artistic, despite your scorn, than many devices for
satisfying the higher instincts of the present day) at an auction sale
in the Strand, London. But it, too, had been supplanted in his esteem
by the mechanical piano-player.

He now selected an example of the most expensive cigar in the
cigar-cabinet and lighted it as only a connoisseur can light a cigar,
lovingly; he blew out the match lingeringly, with regret, and dropped
it and the cigar's red collar with care into a large copper bowl on
the centre table, instead of flinging it against the Japanese umbrella
in the fireplace. (A grave disadvantage of radiators is that you
cannot throw odds and ends into them.) He chose the most expensive
cigar because he wanted comfort and peace. The ham was not digesting
very well.

Then he sat down and applied himself to the property advertisements
in the _Signal_, a form of sensational serial which usually enthralled
him--but not to-night. He allowed the paper to lapse on to the floor,
and then rose impatiently, rearranged the thick dark blue curtains
behind the radiator, and finally yielded to the silent call of
the mechanical piano-player. He quite knew that to dally with the
piano-player while smoking a high-class cigar was to insult the cigar.
But he did not care. He tilted the cigar upwards from an extreme
corner of his mouth, and through the celestial smoke gazed at the