what he read. His surprise changed to amusement as he noticed Drake's
face betray his perplexity and observed him turn now and again to the
title upon the cover as though doubtful whether he had not misread it. He
gave an audible chuckle.

Drake looked up and across the carriage at a man of about fifty years of
age with a large red face and a close-cropped pointed beard. The chuckle
swelled to a laugh.

'You find that a hard nut to crack?' Drake noticed a thickness in the
articulation.

'I have been some years abroad. I hardly catch its drift,' explained
Drake, and then with an effort at praise:

'It seems a clever satire.'

'Satire!' guffawed the other. 'Well, that's rich! Satire? Why, it's a
manifesto. Gad, sir, it's a creed. I believe in my duty to my senses and
the effectuation of me for ever and ever, Amen. The modern jargon! Topsy
Turvydom! Run the world on the comic opera principle, but be flaming
serious about it. Satire, good Lord!'

He flung himself back on his cushions with a snort of contempt.

'Look you, I'm not a pess--' he checked at the word and then took it at a
run, 'a pessimist, but, as things are going on--well, you have been out
of the country and--and you can't help it, I suppose. You may laugh!
P'raps you haven't got daughters--not that I have either, praise glory!
But nieces, if the father's a fool, wear you out very little less.