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 his servants might in reality attend the Sabbath, might unbend enough to eat black-puddings at a picnic without losing his dignity.

"That offensive young man at the Sabbath," she remarked, "I know he wasn't you. Who was he?"

"He's one of these brilliant young authors," replied the Devil. "I believe Titus knows him. He sold me his soul on the condition that once a week he should be without doubt the most important person at a party."

"Why didn't he sell his soul in order to become a great writer!? Then he could have had the party into the bargain."

"He preferred to take a short-cut, you see."

She didn't see. But she was too proud to inquire further, especially as Satan was now smiling at her as if she were a pet lamb.

"What did Mr. Jones"

"That's enough! You can ask him that yourself, when you take your lessons in demonology."

"Do you suppose for one moment that Mr. Gurdon would let me sit closeted with Mr. Jones taking lessons in plain needlework even? He would put his face in at the window and say: 'How much longer are them Mothers to