Leonard accepted the invitation to tea next Saturday.But he was right；the visit proved a conspicuous failure.
"Sugar？"said Margaret.
"Cake？"said Helen."The big cake or the little deadlies？I'm afraid you thought my letter rather odd，but we'll explain--we aren't odd，really--not affected，really.We're over-expressive：
that's all."
As a lady's lap-dog Leonard did not excel.
He was not an Italian，still less a Frenchman，in whose blood there runs the very spirit of persiflage and of gracious repartee.His wit was the Cockney's；it opened no doors into imagination，and Helen was drawn up short by "The more a lady has to say，the better，"administered waggishly.
"Oh，yes，"she said.
"Ladies brighten--"
"Yes，I know.The darlings are regular sunbeams.
Let me give you a plate."
"How do you like your work？"interposed Margaret.
He，too，was drawn up short.He would not have these women prying into his work.They were Romance，and so was the room to which he had at last penetrated，with the queer sketches of people bathing upon its walls，and so were the very tea-cups，with their delicate borders of wild strawberries.But he would not let Romance interfere with his life.There is the devil to pay then.
"Oh，well enough，"he answered.
"Your company is the Porphyrion，isn't it？"
"Yes，that's so"--becoming rather offended.
"It's funny how things get round."
"Why funny？"asked Helen，who did not follow the workings of his mind."It was written as large as life on your card，and considering we wrote to you there，and that you replied on the stamped paper--""Would you call the Porphyrion one of the big Insurance Companies？"pursued Margaret.
"It depends what you call big."
"I mean by big，a solid，well-established concern，that offers a reasonably good career to its employés.""I couldn't say--some would tell you one thing and others another，"said the employe uneasily."For my own part"--he shook his head--"I only believe half I hear.Not that even；it's safer.Those clever ones come to the worse grief，I've often noticed.
Ah，you can't be too careful."
He drank，and wiped his moustache，which was going to be one of those moustaches that always droop into tea-cups--more bother than they're worth，surely，and not fashionable either.
"I quite agree，and that's why I was curious to know：is it a solid，well-established concern？"Leonard had no idea.He understood his own corner of the machine，but nothing beyond it.He desired to confess neither knowledge nor ignorance，and under these circumstances，another motion of the head seemed safest.To him，as to the British public，the Porphyrion was the Porphyrion of the advertisement--a giant，in the classical style，but draped sufficiently，who held in one hand a burning torch，and pointed with the other to St.Paul's and Windsor Castle.
A large sum of money was inscribed below，and you drew your own conclusions.
This giant caused Leonard to do arithmetic and write letters，to explain the regulations to new clients，and re-explain them to old ones.
A giant was of an impulsive morality--one knew that much.He would pay for Mrs.Munt's hearth-rug with ostentatious haste，a large claim he would repudiate quietly，and fight court by court.But his true fighting weight，his antecedents，his amours with other members of the commercial Pantheon--all these were as uncertain to ordinary mortals as were the escapades of Zeus.While the gods are powerful，we learn little about them.
It is only in the days of their decadence that a strong light beats into heaven.
"We were told the Porphyrion's no go，"blurted Helen.
"We wanted to tell you；that's why we wrote.""A friend of ours did think that it is unsufficiently reinsured，"said Margaret.
Now Leonard had his clue.He must praise the Porphyrion."You can tell your friend，"he said，"that he's quite wrong.""Oh，good！"
The young man coloured a little.In his circle to be wrong was fatal.The Miss Schlegels did not mind being wrong.
They were genuinely glad that they had been misinformed.To them nothing was fatal but evil.
"Wrong，so to speak，"he added.
"How 'so to speak'？"
"I mean I wouldn't say he's right altogether."But this was a blunder."Then he is right partly，"said the elder woman，quick as lightning.
Leonard replied that every one was right partly，if it came to that.
"Mr.Bast，I don't understand business，and I dare say my questions are stupid，but can you tell me what makes a concern 'right'
or 'wrong'？"
Leonard sat back with a sigh.
"Our friend，who is also a business man，was so positive.He said before Christmas--""And advised you to clear out of it，"concluded Helen."But I don't see why he should know better than you do."Leonard rubbed his hands.He was tempted to say that he knew nothing about the thing at all.But a commercial training was too strong for him.Nor could he say it was a bad thing，for this would be giving it away；nor yet that it was good，for this would be giving it away equally.He attempted to suggest that it was something between the two，with vast possibilities in either direction，but broke down under the gaze of four sincere eyes.As yet he scarcely distinguished between the two sisters.One was more beautiful and more lively，but "the Miss Schlegels"still remained a composite Indian god，whose waving arms and contradictory speeches were the product of a single mind.
"One can but see，"he remarked，adding，"as Ibsen says，'things happen.'"He was itching to talk about books and make the most of his romantic hour.Minute after minute slipped away，while the ladies，with imperfect skill，discussed the subject of reinsurance or praised their anonymous friend.Leonard grew annoyed--perhaps rightly.He made vague remarks about not being one of those who minded their affairs being talked over by others，but they did not take the hint.
