On an evening in 1866 (exactly eight hundred years after the Battle of Hastings) Mr. Henry   
Knight¹, a draper's manager, aged² forty, dark, clean-shaven, short, but not stout³, sat in his 
 
sitting-room⁴ on the second-floor over the shop which he managed in Oxford⁵ Street, London. He 
 
was proud of that sitting-room, which represented the achievement of an ideal, and he had a 
 
right to be proud of it. The rich green wall-paper covered with peonies in full bloom 
 
(poisoning by arsenical wall-paper had not yet been invented, or Mr. Knight's peonies would 
 
certainly have had to flourish over a different hue) matched the magenta⁷ table-cloth of the 
 
table at which Mr. Knight was writing, and the magenta table-cloth matched the yellow roses 
 
which grew to more than exhibition size on the Axminster carpet; and the fine elaborate effect 
 
thus produced was in no way impaired⁸, but rather enhanced and invigorated, by the mahogany 
 
bookcase full of imperishable printed matter, the horsehair sofa netted in a system of 
 
antimacassars, the waxen flowers in their glassy domes⁹ on the marble mantelpiece, the 
 
Canterbury with its spiral columns, the rosewood harmonium, and the posse of chintz-protected 
 
chairs. Mr. Knight, who was a sincere and upright man, saw beauty in this apartment. It 
 
uplifted his soul, like soft music in the gloaming, or a woman's face.
 
Mr. Knight was writing in a large book. He paused in the act of composition, and, putting the 
 
pen between his teeth, glanced through the pages of the volume. They were filled with the 
 
drafts of letters which he had addressed during the previous seven years to the editors of 
 
various newspapers, including the Times, and several other organs great then but now extinct. 
 
In a space underneath¹⁰ each letter had been neatly¹¹ gummed the printed copy, but here and there a 
 
letter lacked this certificate of success, for Mr. Knight did not always contrive¹² to reach his 
 
public. The letters were signed with pseudonyms¹³, such as A British Citizen, Fiat¹⁴ Justitia, Audi 
 
Alteram Partem, Indignant, Disgusted, One Who Knows, One Who Would Like to Know, Ratepayer, 
 
Taxpayer¹⁵, Puzzled, and Pro⁶ Bono Publico—especially Pro Bono Publico. Two letters, to a trade 
 
periodical, were signed A Draper's Manager of Ten Years' Standing¹⁶, and one, to the Clerkenwell 
 
News, bore his own real name.
 
The letter upon which he was now engaged was numbered seventy-five in the series, and made its 
 
appeal to the editor of the Standard. Having found inspiration, Mr. Knight proceeded, in a hand 
 
distinguished¹⁷ by many fine flourishes:
 
' ... It is true that last year we only paid off some four millions, but the year before we 
 
paid, I am thankful to say, more than nine millions. Why, then, this outcry against the 
 
allocation of somewhat less than nine millions out of our vast national revenue towards the 
 
further extinction¹⁸ of the National Debt? It is not the duty of the State, as well as of the 
 
individual, to pay its debts? In order to support the argument with which I began this 
 
communication, perhaps you will permit me, sir, to briefly¹⁹ outline the history of the National 
 
Debt, our national shame. In 1688 the National Debt was little more than six hundred thousand 
 
pounds....'
 
After briefly outlining the history of the National Debt, Mr. Knight began a new paragraph 
 
thus:
 
'In the immortal²⁰ words of Shakspere, wh——'
But at this point he was interrupted. A young and pleasant woman in a white apron²¹ pushed open 
 
the door.
 
'Henry,' she called from the doorway²².
 
'Well?'
 
'You'd better go now.'
 
'Very well, Annie; I'll go instantly.'
 
He dropped the pen, reduced the gas to a speck²³ of blue, and in half a minute was hurrying along 
 
Oxford Street. The hour was ten o'clock, and the month was July; the evening favoured romance. 
 
He turned into Bury Street, and knocked like fate at a front-door with a brass²⁴ tablet on it, 
 
No. 8 of the street.
 
'No, sir. He isn't in at the moment, sir,' said the maid who answered Mr. Knight's imperious 
 
summons.
 
'Not in!' exclaimed Mr. Knight.
 
'No, sir. He was called away half an hour ago or hardly, and may be out till very late.'
 
'Called away!' exclaimed Mr. Knight. He was astounded²⁵, shocked, pained. 'But I warned him three 
 
months ago!'
 
'Did you, sir? Is it anything very urgent, sir?'
 
'It's——' Mr. Knight hesitated, blushing. The girl looked so young and innocent.
 
'Because if it is, master left word that anyone was to go to Dr. Christopher's, 22, Argyll 
 
Street.'
 
'You will be sure to tell your master that I came,' said Mr. Knight frigidly²⁶, departing.
 
At 22, Argyll Street he was informed that Dr. Christopher had likewise been called away, and 
 
had left a recommendation that urgent cases, if any, should apply to Dr. Quain Short, 15, Bury 
 
Street. His anger was naturally increased by the absence of this second doctor, but it was far 
 
more increased by the fact that Dr. Quain Short happened to live in Bury Street. At that moment 
 
the enigma²⁷ of the universe was wrapped up for him in the question, Why should he have been 
 
compelled to walk all the way from Bury Street to Argyll Street merely in order to walk all the 
 
way back again? And he became a trinity consisting of Disgusted, Indignant, and One Who Would
 
[Pg 6] Like to Know, the middle term predominating. When he discovered that No. 15, Bury 
 
Street, was exactly opposite No. 8, Bury Street, his feelings were such as break bell-wires.
 
'Dr. Quain Short is at the Alhambra Theatre this evening with the family,' a middle-aged²⁸ and 
 
formidable housekeeper²⁹ announced in reply to Mr. Knight's query³⁰. 'In case of urgency he is to 
 
be fetched. His box is No. 3.'
 
'The Alhambra Theatre! Where is that?' gasped³¹ Mr. Knight.
 
It should be explained that he held the stage in abhorrence³², and, further, that the Alhambra 
 
had then only been opened for a very brief period.
 
'Two out, and the third at the theatre!' Mr. Knight mused³³ grimly, hastening through Seven 
 
Dials. 'At the theatre, of all places!'
 
A letter to the Times about the medical profession was just shaping itself in his mind as he 
 
arrived at the Alhambra and saw that a piece entitled King Carrot filled the bill.
 
'King Karrot!' he muttered scornfully, emphasizing the dangerously explosive consonants³⁴ in a 
 
manner which expressed with complete adequacy, not only his indignation against the entire 
 
medical profession, but his utter and profound contempt for the fatuities³⁵ of the modern stage.
 
The politeness of the officials and the prompt appearance of Dr. Quain Short did something to 
 
mollify the draper's manager of ten years' standing, though he was not pleased when the doctor 
 
insisted on going first to his surgery for certain requisites³⁶. It was half-past eleven when he 
 
returned home; Dr. Quain Short was supposed to be hard behind.
 
'How long you've been!' said a voice on the second flight of stairs, 'It's all over. A boy. And 
 
dear Susan is doing splendidly. Mrs. Puddiphatt says she never saw such a——'
 
From the attic³⁷ floor came the sound of a child crying shrilly³⁸ and lustily:
 
'Aunt Annie! Aunt Annie! Aunt Annie!'
 
'Run up and quieten him!' Mr. Knight commanded. 'It's like him to begin making a noise just 
 
now. I'll take a look at Susan—and my firstborn.'