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 them were greased from head to foot with palm-oil, and smeared with powdered camwood that changed them to a deep mahogany; all had their wool twisted into knobs and pigtails, and most of them wore pieces of wood, big as the handle of a table knife, skewered through their upper lips. Oh!—a most adorable lot of houris.”

“All the better,” vociferated The Architect. “Be stunning under the spotlights. Tell me more about him. I may write the libretto myself and get Livadi to do the music. It’s a wonderful find! Did you ever see Goringe again?”

“No, but I kept track of him. The Belgian home company went back on their contract, and refused to pay him just as he feared they would; they claimed he didn’t and couldn’t have supplied that number of carriers—the sort of defence a corporation always makes when they want to get out of a bad bargain. This decided him. He made a bee-line for the coast, sailed by the first steamer, brought suit, tried it himself, won his case, got his money and a new contract; took the first train for Monte Carlo, lost every penny he had in a night; went back to Brussels, got a second con-