whom we shall hear more in these pages), together with the usual
assortment of bills and receipts, the whole an enlivening record
not only of Peter's daily life and range of taste, but of the
limitations of his purse as well.

One letter was reserved for the last. This he held in his hand
until he again ran his eye over the pile before him. It was from
Holker Morris the architect, a man who stood at the head of his
profession.

"Yes, Holker's handwriting," he said as he inserted the end of the
paper cutter. "I wonder what the dear fellow wants now?" Here he
ran his eye over the first page. "Listen, Major. What an
extraordinary man ... He's going to give a dinner, he says, to his
draughtsmen ... in his offices at the top of his new building, six
stories up. Does the rascal think I have nothing to do but crawl
up his stairs? Here, I'll read it to you."

"'You, dear Peter:' That's just like Holker! He begins that way
when he wants me to do something for him. 'No use saying you won't
come, for I shall be around for you at seven o'clock with a club--
'No, that's not it--he writes so badly--'with a cab.' Yes, that's
it--'with a cab.' I wonder if he can drive me up those six flights
of stairs? 'There'll be something to eat, and drink, and there
will be fifty or more of my draughtsmen and former employes. I'm
going to give them a dinner and a house-warming. Bring the Major
if you see him. I have sent a note to his room, but it may not
reach him. No dress suit, remember. Some of my men wouldn't know
one if they saw it."