came in despair to you. I'm _sure_ in your wide acquaintance, my
dear Gammon--"

"Hold on, what's 'Saponaria'?"

"A new washing powder; only started a few days. Big vans, painted
vermilion and indigo, going about town and suburbs distributing
handbills and so on."

"I see. But look here, Greenacre, what's all this rot about Lord
Bolsover?"

"My dear Gammon," protested the other. "I really can't allow you to
speak in that way. I make all allowance for the hour and the
circumstances, but when it comes to the death of a dear friend--"

"How the devil come you to be his friend, or he yours?" shouted
Gammon in comical exasperation.

"Why, surely you have heard me speak of him. Yet, perhaps not. It
was rather a painful subject. The fact is, I once gave the poor
fellow a severe thrashing; it was before he succeeded to the title I
was obliged to do it. Poor Bolsover confessed afterwards that he had
behaved badly (there was a lady in the case), but it put an end to
our intimacy. And now he's gone, and the least I can do is to attend
his funeral. That reminds me, Gammon, I fear I shall have to borrow
a sovereign, if it's quite convenient to you. There's the hire of
the black suit, you see, and the fare to Hitchin. Do you think you
could?"