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cards and extend a general invitation to the No. 2 Committee to visit his factory and show-rooms in Auckland at any time, an invitation of which the old friends sweetly promised to take early advantage.

“Yes, most people think I am French—until they meet me,” he replied to a polite expression of surprise. “‘Picotarde’ looks better on a window than ‘Ezekiel,’ eh? Me? I am a Jew. All the best dress-designers are Jews. Jews are artistic—and they know the value of their brains.”

He turned to Mrs. Langham as he threw his hat upon a handy bench.

“Now, what is it, Mrs. Langham?” he asked in a lowered voice. “Very expensive, rushing away from my business like this. What is the matter?”

He waved his right hand in the air and snapped his fingers noisily—a mannerism expressive of great impatience.

“This also is your business, Mr. Ezekiel,” answered Mrs. Langham, drawing herself up again and glaring down the length of the room to where Patricia stood with her back to a window, her hands folded before her and an inscrutable expression on her face. “As one of your clients—as a purchaser with a large following of fashionable friends, I may add—I object to being insulted in a crowded theatre and having my face slapped by the woman in charge of your New Plymouth branch. Here, in this very room, she slapped my face twice before my committee!”

Mr. Ezekiel stared incredulously from Mrs. Langham to Patricia—whom he had not noticed previousfy—and back again.

“Mrs. Langham!” he exclaimed. “This is not altogether true, eh? Something else, eh?”

“I am not in the habit of telling falsehoods, sir,” replied Mrs. Langham tartly. “There is the young woman herself. Ask her to deny it. Here are my friends as witnesses. I could, of course, take action in the court, Mr. Ezekiel; but I am not a vengeful woman. Nevertheless, I think that something should