on more airs than Beauty Steele."

It was fortunate that, at that instant, Charley's face was turned away,
or the Seigneur would have seen it go white and startled. Charley did
not dare turn his head for the moment. He could not speak. What did
the Seigneur know of Beauty Steele?

To hide his momentary confusion, he went over to the drawer of a cupboard
in the wall, and placed the book inside. It gave him time to recover
himself. When he turned round again his face was calm, his manner
composed.

"And who, may I ask, is Beauty Steele?" he said. "Faith I do not know,"
answered the Seigneur, taking a pinch of snuff. "It's years since I
first read the phrase in a letter a scamp of a relative of mine wrote me
from the West. He had met a man of the name, who had a reputation as a
clever fop, a very handsome fellow. So I thought it a good phrase, and
I've used it ever since on occasions. 'More airs than Beauty Steele.'
--It has a sound; it's effective, I fancy, Monsieur?"

"Decidedly effective," answered Charley quietly. He picked up his
shears. "You will excuse me," he said grimly, "but I must earn my
living. I cannot live on my reputation."

The Seigneur and the Cure lifted their hats--to the tailor.

"Au revoir, Monsieur," they both said, and Charley bowed them out.

The two friends turned to each other a little way up the street.
"Something will come of this, Cure," said the Seigneur. The Cure,