A March wind blew the dust and dead leaves in eddies through the breadth of Castle Gate as Dr. Steel’s brougham drew up before the timbered front of a Jacobean house. The mellow building with its carved barge-boards and great sweeping gables bore the date of 1617, and still carried a weather-worn sign swinging on an iron bracket. For the last fifty years the ground floor had been used as a grocery shop, a dim, rambling cavern of a place fragrant with the scent of coffee and spices. The proprietor, Mr. Isaac Mainprice, a very superior tradesman who dabbled in arch?ology, had refrained from gilt lettering above the door; nor did the quaint leaded windows glare with advertisements, whiskey bottles, and Dutch cheeses. Every one within ten miles of Roxton knew Mr. Mainprice. His prosperity did not need to be flaunted upon his windows.

“Good-day, madam. Terribly windy. Permit me.”

Mrs. Betty had swept across the pavement in her sables, an opulent figure wooed by the March wind. Mr. Mainprice had fussed forward in person. He bowed in his white apron, swung a chair forward, and then dodged behind the counter. The shop was empty, and three melancholy assistants studied Mrs. Betty from behind pyramids of sweetmeats and packages of tea, for the face under the white toque had all the imperative fascination of smooth and confident beauty.

Mrs. Steel drew out a little ivory memorandum-book, and glanced at it perfunctorily, before looking up into Mr. Mainprice’s attentive face. He was a weak-eyed, damp-haired man, with a big nose and a loose, good-tempered mouth. A patch of red on either cheek seemed to suggest that the épicier cultivated an authoritative taste in port, sherry, and Madeira.

“I want some jellies and soups, Mr. Mainprice.”

“Certainly, madam.”

“There are a few poor people my husband attends. I want to help them with a few little delicacies.”

Mrs. Betty’s drawl was most confidentially sympathetic, and Mr. Mainprice ducked approvingly behind the counter.

“What brand, madam? Lazenby’s, Cross & Blackwell’s—?”

“Oh—the best—what you recommend.”

“Thank you, madam.”

“Let me see,” and Mrs. Betty’s eyes wandered with an air of delightful innocence about the shop; “I like the glassed jellies best. Six. Yes, six. And six tins of desiccated soup.”

“Certainly, madam. The large size?”

“Yes. Will you have them made up into different parcels? I will take them in the carriage.”

“Certainly, madam.”

Mr. Mainprice nodded sharply to the three melancholy assistants, and then bent over the counter to scribble in his order-book.

“Very windy weather, madam.”

Mrs. Betty glanced up brightly at the suave, thin-whiskered face, and smiled. She had a great variety of smiles, and Mr. Mainprice was an intelligent person, and a man who was not ashamed of wearing a white apron. Moreover, he was an excellent patient, the father of five tall and unhealthy daughters, and the sympathetic husband of a neurasthenic wife.

“Terribly windy,” she agreed. “This is a dear old house, but I suppose it is rather draughty.”

“No, madam, no, we find it very comfortable. I have had double windows fitted to the upper rooms.”

“They make such a difference.”

“Such a difference, madam.”

There was a short pause. Mr. Mainprice was a nervous man. He had a habit of sniffing, and of opening and shutting his order-book as though it was imperative for him to keep his hands occupied.

“Dr. Steel is very busy, madam?”

“Oh, very busy; so much influenza.”

“I am afraid, madam,” and Mr. Mainprice elongated himself over the counter with a waggish side twist of the head—“I am afraid we selfish people don’t show Dr. Steel much mercy.”

Mrs. Betty laughed.

“I believe you yourself have been particularly wicked this winter, Mr. Mainprice.”

“I must plead guilty, madam.”

“You are quite well now, I hope?”

Mr. Mainprice frowned, and half shut one eye.

“Nearly well, madam. I ventured out last night without orders.”

“The Primrose League Concert?”

“Now, madam, you have found me out!”

Mrs. Betty and the épicier regarded each other with a sympathetic sense of humor.

“We were there, Mr. Mainprice, and I was so annoyed because Dr. Steel was called away just before your daughter sang.”

“Indeed, madam,” and Mr. Mainprice sniffed with nervous satisfaction.

“The best item on the programme. Such a sweet contralto, and such musical feeling. I remember poor Mrs. Murchison used to sing some of the same songs. Of course she never had your daughter’s artistic instinct.”

Mr. Mainprice colored, and looked coy.

“The girl has had first-class lessons, Mrs. Steel. I believe in having the best of everything. I have been very fortunate, madam, and though I ought not to mention it, money is no consideration.”

The grocer straightened his back suddenly, with a mild snigger of self-salutation.

“Money well spent, Mr. Mainprice—”

“Is money invested, madam. Exactly. And a good education is an investment in these days.”

Two of the melancholy assistants were carrying the parcels to Mrs. Betty’s carriage. She rose with a rustle of silks, her rich fur jacket setting off her slim but sensuous figure. Mr. Mainprice dodged from behind the counter, and preceded her to the door.

“If it will be any convenience, Mrs. Steel, we can deliver the parcels immediately.”

“Thank you, I want to see the people myself. I like to keep in touch with the poor, Mr. Mainprice.”

The grocer’s weak eyes honored a ministering angel.

“Exactly, madam. Permit me—”

He edged through the door with a nervous clearing of the throat, blinked as the wind blew a cloud of dust across the road, and escorted my Lady Bountiful to her carriage.

“What address, madam?”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Mainprice, the coachman knows.”

And Mr. Mainprice stood on the curb for fully ten seconds, watching Dr. Steel’s brougham bear this most charming lady upon her round of Christian kindness and pity.

It is wise in this world to cultivate a reputation for philanthropy, though like the priestly dress it may be a mere sanctity of the surface. Few people are honest enough to be open egotists, and to attain our ends it is necessary to skilfully bribe our neighbors’ prejudices. Though self-interest is the motive power that keeps the world from flagging, it is neither discreet nor cultured to blatantly acknowledge such a truth, for without a certain measure of hypocrisy life would be a sorry scramble. That man should be taught to love his neighbor as himself is both admirable and inspiring, and yet no one who respects his banking account could ever seriously accept so unbusiness-like a theory. There was more shrewd, honest, and unflinching truth-telling in Hobbes than in the vaporings of a flimsy sentimentalism.

Now Mrs. Betty had no more love for a washerwoman sick with a carbuncle on her neck than she had for an old and mildewed boot. Poverty and the inevitable sordidness thereof were more than distasteful to her, and yet she was so far sound in her worldly philosophy as to dissemble her distaste for expediency’s sake. It is never foolish to be suspected of generosity. And in Roxton, where the ladies counted one another’s yearly record as to hats, it was necessary to assume some sort of benignant atti............