was in mere pity that Mrs. Higgs came to my rescue with a welcome proposition. If the gentleman was really interested in stamps, she said, probably supposing me a monomaniac on the point, he should see Mr. Denman's album. Mr. Denman had been collecting forty years, and his collection was said to be worth a mint of money. “Agnes,” she went on, “if you were a kind little girl, you would run over to the 'All, tell Mr. Denman there's a connaisseer in the 'ouse, and ask him if one of the young gentlemen might bring the album down.”
“I should like to see his exchanges too,” I cried, rising to the occasion. “I may have some of mine in my pocket-book and we might trade.”
Half an hour later Mr. Denman arrived himself with a most unconscionable volume under his arm.
“Ah, sir,” he cried, “when I 'eard you was a collector, I dropped all. It's a saying of mine, Mr. Dodsley, that collecting stamps makes all collectors kin. It's a bond, sir; it creates a bond.”
Upon the truth of this, I cannot say; but there is no doubt that the attempt to pass yourself off for a collector falsely creates a precarious situation.
“Ah, here's the second issue!” I would say, after consulting the legend at the side. “The pink—no, I mean the mauve—yes, that's the beauty of this lot. Though of course, as you say,” I would hasten to add, “this yellow on the thin paper is more rare.”
Indeed I must certainly have been detected, had I not plied Mr. Denman in self-defence with his favourite liquor—a port so excellent that it could never have ripened in the cellar of the Carthew Arms, but must have been transported, under cloud of night, from the neighbouring vaults of the great house. At each threat of exposure, and in particular whenever I was directly challenged for an opinion, I made haste
