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48 I wouldn't mind so much if Pagett didn't make me work too. My idea of work is something that should be undertaken lightly and airily—trifled with, in fact! I doubt if Guy Pagett has ever trifled with anything in his life. He takes everything seriously. That is what makes him so difficult to live with.

Last week I had the brilliant idea of sending him off to Florence. He talked about Florence and how much he wanted to go there.

"My dear fellow," I cried, "you shall go to-morrow. I will pay all your expenses."

January isn't the usual time for going to Florence, but it would be all one to Pagett. I could imagine him going about, guide-book in hand, religiously doing all the picture galleries. And a week's freedom was cheap to meat the price.

It has been a delightful week. I have done everything I wanted to, and nothing that I did not want to do. But when I blinked my eyes open, and perceived Pagett standing between me and the light at the unearthly hour of 9 A.M. this morning, I realized that freedom was over.

"My dear fellow," I said, "has the funeral already taken place, or is it for later in the morning?"

Pagett does not appreciate dry humour. He merely stared.

"So you know, Sir Eustace?"

"Know what?" I said crossly. "From the expression of your face I inferred that one of your near and dear relatives was to be interred this morning."

Pagett ignored the sally as far as possible.

"I thought you couldn't know about this." He tapped the telegram. "I know you dislike being aroused early—but it is nine o'clock"—Pagett insists on regarding 9 A.M. as practically the middle of the day—"and I thought that