Then his eye flashed fire; he banged his fist on the dressing-table to accompany each staccato syllable. "I—miss—a—pair—of—pan—ta—loons!" he shrieked. The weak and ductile donor had a bad quarter of a minute. "Perhaps," he stammered at last, "you—m—mean—the new pair I found had got accidentally mixed up with them." "Of course I mean the new pair! And so you took them away! Just because I wasn't looking. I left the room, thinking I had to do with a man of honour. If you had taken an old pair I shouldn't have minded so much; but to rob a poor man of his brand-new breeches!" "I must have them," cried Grobstock irascibly. "I have to go to a reception to-morrow, and they are the only pair I shall have to wear. You see I—" [37] [37] [38] [38] "Oh, very well," interrupted the Schnorrer, in low, indifferent tones. After that there was a dead silence. The Schnorrer majestically folded some silk stockings and laid them in the box. Upon them he packed other garments in stern, sorrowful hauteur. Grobstock's soul began to tingle with pricks of compunction. Da Costa completed his task, but could not shut the overcrowded box. Grobstock silently seated his weighty person upon the lid. Manasseh neither resented nor welcomed him. When he had turned the key he mutely tilted the sitter off the box and shouldered it with consummate ease. Then he took his staff and strode from the room. Grobstock would have followed him, but the Schnorrer waved him back. "TILTED THE SITTER OFF THE BOX." "On Friday, then," the conscience-stricken magnate said feebly. Manasseh did not reply; he slammed the door instead, shutting in the master of the house. Grobstock fell back on the bed exhausted, looking not unlike the tumbled litter of clothes he replaced. In a minute or two he raised himself and went to the window, and stood watching the sun set behind the
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