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Rh his head; though I fancy a smart shower of them upon his face would scarcely improve the flavour of his "Balzac." He looks rather astonished as my head suddenly appears at his elbow, and lays down his book.

"How do you do?" I say quickly. "Do not try to shake hands, you will only tumble out; I have come to ask you something very particular."

"Well, what is it?"

"You like to do kind things, do you not? You like to please people?"

"That depends on who they are."

"Oh, these are rather nice," I say, nodding; "they can't help being only girls, you know."

"Oh, girls!" says Mr. Vasher; "and how can I please them?"

"We are going to have a party," I say, seriously, "and you are going to be invited, and the Buffs were talking about it on Sunday, taking it as a matter of course that you would come; but somehow I felt in my bones that it was not the sort of thing you would care about, and I made up my mind to ask you to come as a great favour to us all."

"And why did you think I should not come?" he asks, amusedly.

"Because," I say confidentially, "I know that, as a rule, men do not care for girls in a lump; they do not mind a few, but they can't stand fifty."

"Only fifty? I thought I saw over a hundred on Sunday."

"Oh, no!" I say, laughing; "do not make us out worse than we are. And so—and so I thought I would just tell you how anxious we are for you to come, because I thought that, however much you disliked the idea, you would come as a matter of duty."

"You must think me a good-tempered sort of fellow," says Mr. Vasher, scrambling out of his hammock somewhat inelegantly (the