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FTERNOON, Hink. Give my love to the dear Duchess of Dontcherknow, not forgetting little Lady Marjorie as well."

Mr. Hink walked out in dignified silence as no suitable retort occurred to him. They were a common lot of fellows with whom he had to associate at the shop, having no soul above the counter, and jealous of his obvious superiority. Early closing days found them preferring such plebeian resorts as Epping, or the Oval, to Hyde Park and the promenades of the West End. Mr. Hink went his own way, and after one or two unsuccessful attempts he tried no more to lead their footsteps into selecter paths. On the whole he was not sorry; such companions would have compromised his own appearance in the haunts of fashion.

Mr. Hink, it will be seen, had tastes above his station. Fate had cast him behind the retail counter and given him nothing in return but the doubtful admiration of the young lady in the cashier's box and thirty-five shillings a week. The congenial sphere, his proper place indeed, he felt sure would have been among the haute monde—to borrow a phrase frequently on his lips. He was getting on, too. Only three weeks ago had he not mingled with the brilliant throng at a hospital bazaar (closing day), and direct from the jewelled hands of the Countess of Camberwell received a cup of tea? Had he not, with easy grace, requested the Lady Sybil to put in another piece of sugar, and when that astute