TOMMY AND CO. 

BYJEROME K. JEROMEAUTHOR OF"PAUL KELVER, " "IDLE THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW, ""THREE MEN IN A BOAT, " ETC. 

LONDONHUTCHINSON AND CO. PATERNOSTER ROW1904

STORY THE FIRST--Peter Hope plans his Prospectus

"Come in!" said Peter Hope. 

Peter Hope was tall and thin, clean-shaven but for a pair of sidewhiskers close-cropped and terminating just below the ear, with hair ofthe kind referred to by sympathetic barbers as "getting a little thin onthe top, sir, " but arranged with economy, that everywhere is poverty'strue helpmate. About Mr. Peter Hope's linen, which was white thoughsomewhat frayed, there was a self-assertiveness that invariably arrestedthe attention of even the most casual observer. Decidedly there was toomuch of it--its ostentation aided and abetted by the retiring nature ofthe cut-away coat, whose chief aim clearly was to slip off and disappearbehind its owner's back. "I'm a poor old thing, " it seemed to say. "Idon't shine--or, rather, I shine too much among these up-to-date youngmodes. I only hamper you. You would be much more comfortable withoutme. " To persuade it to accompany him, its proprietor had to employforce, keeping fastened the lowest of its three buttons. At every step, it struggled for its liberty. Another characteristic of Peter's, linkinghim to the past, was his black silk cravat, secured by a couple of goldpins chained together. Watching him as he now sat writing, his long legsencased in tightly strapped grey trousering, crossed beneath the table, the lamplight falling on his fresh-complexioned face, upon the shapelyhand that steadied the half-written sheet, a stranger might have rubbedhis eyes, wondering by what hallucination he thus found himself inpresence seemingly of some young beau belonging to the early 'forties;but looking closer, would have seen the many wrinkles. 

"Come in!" repeated Mr. Peter Hope, raising his voice, but not his eyes. 

The door opened, and a small, white face, out of which gleamed a pair ofbright, black eyes, was thrust sideways into the room. 

"Come in!" repeated Mr. Peter Hope for the third time. "Who is it?"

A hand not over clean, grasping a greasy cloth cap, appeared below theface. 

"Not ready yet, " said Mr. Hope. "Sit down and wait. "

The door opened wider, and the whole of the figure slid in and, closingthe door behind it, sat itself down upon the extreme edge of the chairnearest. 

"Which are you--_Central News_ or _Courier_?" demanded Mr. Peter Hope, but without looking up from his work. 

The bright, black eyes, which had just commenced an examination of theroom by a careful scrutiny of the smoke-grimed ceiling, descended andfixed themselves upon the one clearly defined bald patch upon his headthat, had he been aware of it, would have troubled Mr. Peter Hope. Butthe full, red lips beneath the turned-up nose remained motionless. 

That he had received no answer to his question appeared to have escapedthe attention of Mr. Peter Hope. The thin, white hand moved steadily toand fro across the paper. Three more sheets were added to those upon thefloor. Then Mr. Peter Hope pushed back his chair and turned his gaze forthe first time upon his visitor. 

To Peter Hope, hack journalist, long familiar with the genus Printer'sDevil, small white faces, tangled hair, dirty hands, and greasy caps werecommon objects in the neighbourhood of that buried rivulet, the Fleet. But this was a new species. Peter Hope sought his spectacles, found themafter some trouble under a heap of newspapers, adjusted them upon hishigh, arched nose, leant forward, and looked long and up and down. 

"God bless my soul!" said Mr. Peter Hope. "What is it?"

The figure rose to its full height of five foot one and came forwardslowly. 

Over a tight-fitting garibaldi of blue silk, excessively _decollete_, itwore what once had been a boy's pepper-and-salt jacket. A worstedcomforter wound round the neck still left a wide expanse of throatshowing above the garibaldi. Below the jacket fell a long, black skirt, the train of which had been looped up about the waist and fastened with acricket-belt. 

"Who are you? What do you want?" asked Mr. Peter Hope. 

For answer, the figure, passing the greasy cap into its other hand, stooped down and, seizing the front of the long skirt, began to haul itup. 

"Don't do that!" said Mr. Peter Hope. "I say, you know, you--"

But by this time the skirt had practically disappeared, leaving to view apair of much-patched trousers, diving into the right-hand pocket of whichthe dirty hand drew forth a folded paper, which, having opened andsmoothed out, it laid upon the desk. 

Mr. Peter Hope pushed up his spectacles till they rested on his eyebrows, and read aloud--"'Steak and Kidney Pie, 4d. ; Do. (large size), _6d. _;Boiled Mutton--'"

"That's where I've been for the last two weeks, " said thefigure, --"Hammond's Eating House!"

The listener noted with surprise that the voice--though it told him asplainly as if he had risen and drawn aside the red rep curtains, thatoutside in Gough Square the yellow fog lay like the ghost of a deadsea--betrayed no Cockney accent, found no difficulty with its aitches. 

"You ask for Emma. She'll say a good word for me. She told me so. "

"But, my good--" Mr. Peter Hope, checking himself, sought again theassistance of his glasses. The glasses being unable to decide the point, their owner had to put the question bluntly:

"Are you a boy or a girl?"

"I dunno. "

"You don't know!"

"What's the difference?"

Mr. Peter Hope stood up, and taking the strange figure by the shoulders, turned it round slowly twice, apparently under the impression that theprocess might afford to him some clue. But it did not. 

"What is your name?"

"Tommy. "

"Tommy what?"

"Anything you like. I dunno. I've had so many of 'em. "

"What do you want? What have you come for?"

"You're Mr. Hope, ain't you, second floor, 16, Gough Square?"

"That is my name. "

"You want somebody to do for you?"

"You mean a housekeeper!"

"Didn't say anything about housekeeper. Said you wanted somebody to dofor you--cook and clean the place up. Heard 'em talking about it in theshop this afternoon. Old lady in green bonnet was asking Mother Hammondif she knew of anyone. "

"Mrs. Postwhistle--yes, I did ask her to look out for someone for me. Why, do you know of anyone? Have you been sent by anybody?"

"You don't want anything too 'laborate in the way o' cooking? You was asimple old chap, so they said; not much trouble. "

"No--no. I don't want much--someone clean and respectable. But whycouldn't she come herself? Who is it?"

"Well, what's wrong about me?"

"I beg your pardon, " said Mr. Peter Hope. 

"Why won't I do? I can make beds and clean rooms--all that sort o'thing. As for cooking, I've got a natural aptitude for it. You askEmma; she'll tell you. You don't want nothing 'laborate?"

"Elizabeth, " said Mr. Peter Hope, as he crossed and, taking up the poker, proceeded to stir the fire, "are we awake or asleep?"

Elizabeth thus appealed to, raised herself on her hind legs and dug herclaws into her master's thigh. Mr. Hope's trousers being thin, it wasthe most practical answer she could have given him. 

"Done a lot of looking after other people for their benefit, " continuedTommy. "Don't see why I shouldn't do it for my own. "

"My dear--I do wish I knew whether you were a boy or a girl. Do youseriously suggest that I should engage you as my housekeeper?" asked Mr. Peter Hope, now upright with his back to the fire. 

"I'd do for you all right, " persisted Tommy. "You give me my grub and ashake-down and, say, sixpence a week, and I'll grumble less than most of'em. "

"Don't be ridiculous, " said Mr. Peter Hope. 

"You won't try me?"

"Of course not; you must be mad. "

"All right. No harm done. " The dirty hand reached out towards the desk, and possessing itself again of Hammond's Bill of Fare, commenced theoperations necessary for bearing it away in safety. 

"Here's a shilling for you, " said Mr. Peter Hope. 

"Rather not, " said Tommy. "Thanks all the same. "

"Nonsense!" said Mr. Peter Hope. 

"Rather not, " repeated Tommy. "Never know where that sort of thing maylead you to. "

"All right, " said Mr. Peter Hope, replacing the coin in his pocket. "Don't!"

The figure moved towards the door. 

"Wait a minute. Wait a minute, " said Mr. Peter Hope irritably. 

The figure, with its hand upon the door, stood still. 

"Are you going back to Hammond's?"

"No. I've finished there. Only took me on for a couple o' weeks, whileone of the gals was ill. She came back this morning. "

"Who are your people?"

Tommy seemed puzzled. "What d'ye mean?"

"Well, whom do you live with?"

"Nobody. "

"You've got nobody to look after you--to take care of you?"

"Take care of me! D'ye think I'm a bloomin' kid?"

"Then where are you going to now?"

"Going? Out. "

Peter Hope's irritation was growing. 

"I mean, where are you going to sleep? Got any money for a lodging?"

"Yes, I've got some money, " answered Tommy. "But I don't think much o'lodgings. Not a particular nice class as you meet there. I shall sleepout to-night. 'Tain't raining. "

Elizabeth uttered a piercing cry. 

"Serves you right!" growled Peter savagely. "How can anyone helptreading on you when you will get just between one's legs. Told you ofit a hundred times. "

The truth of the matter was that Peter was becoming very angry withhimself. For no reason whatever, as he told himself, his memory wouldpersist in wandering to Ilford Cemetery, in a certain desolate corner ofwhich lay a fragile little woman whose lungs had been but ill adapted tobreathing London fogs; with, on the top of her, a still smaller and stillmore fragile mite of humanity that, in compliment to its only relativeworth a penny-piece, had been christened Thomas--a name common enough inall conscience, as Peter had reminded himself more than once. In thename of common sense, what had dead and buried Tommy Hope to do with thisaffair? The whole thing was the veriest sentiment, and sentiment was Mr. Peter Hope's abomination. Had he not penned articles innumerablepointing out its baneful influence upon the age? Had he not alwayscondemned it, wherever he had come across it in play or book? Now andthen the suspicion had crossed Peter's mind that, in spite of all this, he was somewhat of a sentimentalist himself--things had suggested this tohim. The fear had always made him savage. 

"You wait here till I come back, " he growled, seizing the astonishedTommy by the worsted comforter and spinning it into the centre of theroom. "Sit down, and don't you dare to move. " And Peter went out andslammed the door behind him. 

"Bit off his chump, ain't he?" remarked Tommy to Elizabeth, as the soundof Peter's descending footsteps died away. People had a way ofaddressing remarks to Elizabeth. Something in her manner invited this. 

"Oh, well, it's all in the day's work, " commented Tommy cheerfully, andsat down as bid. 

Five minutes passed, maybe ten. Then Peter returned, accompanied by alarge, restful lady, to whom surprise--one felt it instinctively--hadalways been, and always would remain, an unknown quantity. 

Tommy rose. 

"That's the--the article, " explained Peter. 

Mrs. Postwhistle compressed her lips and slightly tossed her head. Itwas the attitude of not ill-natured contempt from which she regarded mosthuman affairs. 

"That's right, " said Mrs. Postwhistle; "I remember seeing 'erthere--leastways, it was an 'er right enough then. What 'ave you donewith your clothes?"

"They weren't mine, " explained Tommy. "They were things what Mrs. Hammond had lent me. "

"Is that your own?" asked Mrs. Postwhistle, indicating the blue silkgaribaldi. 

"Yes. "

"What went with it?"

"Tights. They were too far gone. "

"What made you give up the tumbling business and go to Mrs. 'Ammond's?"

"It gave me up. Hurt myself. "

"Who were you with last?"

"Martini troupe. "

"And before that?"

"Oh! heaps of 'em. "

"Nobody ever told you whether you was a boy or a girl?"

"Nobody as I'd care to believe. Some of them called me the one, some ofthem the other. It depended upon what was wanted. "

"How old are you?"

"I dunno. "

Mrs. Postwhistle turned to Peter, who was jingling keys. 

"Well, there's the bed upstairs. It's for you to decide. "

"What I don't want to do, " explained Peter, sinking his voice to aconfidential whisper, "is to make a fool of myself. "

"That's always a good rule, " agreed Mrs. Postwhistle, "for those to whomit's possible. "

"Anyhow, " said Peter, "one night can't do any harm. To-morrow we canthink what's to be done. "

"To-morrow" had always been Peter's lucky day. At the mere mention ofthe magic date his spirits invariably rose. He now turned upon Tommy acountenance from which all hesitation was banished. 

"Very well, Tommy, " said Mr. Peter Hope, "you can sleep here to-night. Gowith Mrs. Postwhistle, and she'll show you your room. "

The black eyes shone. 

"You're going to give me a trial?"

"We'll talk about all that to-morrow. " The black eyes clouded. 

"Look here. I tell you straight, it ain't no good. "

"What do you mean? What isn't any good?" demanded Peter. 

"You'll want to send me to prison. "

"To prison!"

"Oh, yes. You'll call it a school, I know. You ain't the first that'stried that on. It won't work. " The bright, black eyes were flashingpassionately. "I ain't done any harm. I'm willing to work. I can keepmyself. I always have. What's it got to do with anybody else?"

Had the bright, black eyes retained their expression of passionatedefiance, Peter Hope might have retained his common sense. Only Fatearranged that instead they should suddenly fill with wild tears. And atsight of them Peter's common sense went out of the room disgusted, andthere was born the history of many things. 

"Don't be silly, " said Peter. "You didn't understand. Of course I'mgoing to give you a trial. You're going to 'do' for me. I merely meantthat we'd leave the details till to-morrow. Come, housekeepers don'tcry. "

The little wet face looked up. 

"You mean it? Honour bright?"

"Honour bright. Now go and wash yourself. Then you shall get me mysupper. "

The odd figure, still heaving from its paroxysm of sobs, stood up. 

"And I have my grub, my lodging, and sixpence a week?"

"Yes, yes; I think that's a fair arrangement, " agreed Mr. Peter Hope, considering. "Don't you, Mrs. Postwhistle?"

"With a frock--or a suit of trousers--thrown in, " suggested Mrs. Postwhistle. "It's generally done. "

"If it's the custom, certainly, " agreed Mr. Peter Hope. "Sixpence a weekand clothes. "

And this time it was Peter that, in company with Elizabeth, sat waitingthe return of Tommy. 

"I rather hope, " said Peter, "it's a boy. It was the fogs, you know. Ifonly I could have afforded to send him away!"

Elizabeth looked thoughtful. The door opened. 

"Ah! that's better, much better, " said Mr. Peter Hope. "'Pon my word, you look quite respectable. "

By the practical Mrs. Postwhistle a working agreement, benefiting bothparties, had been arrived at with the long-trained skirt; while an ampleshawl arranged with judgment disguised the nakedness that lay below. Peter, a fastidious gentleman, observed with satisfaction that the hands, now clean, had been well cared for. 

"Give me that cap, " said Peter. He threw it in the glowing fire. Itburned brightly, diffusing strange odours. 

"There's a travelling cap of mine hanging up in the passage. You canwear that for the present. Take this half-sovereign and get me some coldmeat and beer for supper. You'll find everything else you want in thatsideboard or else in the kitchen. Don't ask me a hundred questions, anddon't make a noise, " and Peter went back to his work. 

"Good idea, that half-sovereign, " said Peter. "Shan't be bothered with'Master Tommy' any more, don't expect. Starting a nursery at our time oflife. Madness. " Peter's pen scratched and spluttered. Elizabeth keptan eye upon the door. 

"Quarter of an hour, " said Peter, looking at his watch. "Told you so. "The article on which Peter was now engaged appeared to be of a worryingnature. 

"Then why, " said Peter, "why did he refuse that shilling? Artfulness, "concluded Peter, "pure artfulness. Elizabeth, old girl, we've got out ofthis business cheaply. Good idea, that half-sovereign. " Peter gave ventto a chuckle that had the effect of alarming Elizabeth. 

But luck evidently was not with Peter that night. 

"Pingle's was sold out, " explained Tommy, entering with parcels; "had togo to Bow's in Farringdon Street. "

"Oh!" said Peter, without looking up. 

Tommy passed through into the little kitchen behind. Peter wrote onrapidly, making up for lost time. 

"Good!" murmured Peter, smiling to himself, "that's a neat phrase. Thatought to irritate them. "

Now, as he wrote, while with noiseless footsteps Tommy, unseen behindhim, moved to and fro and in and out the little kitchen, there came toPeter Hope this very curious experience: it felt to him as if for a longtime he had been ill--so ill as not even to have been aware of it--andthat now he was beginning to be himself again; consciousness of thingsreturning to him. This solidly furnished, long, oak-panelled room withits air of old-world dignity and repose--this sober, kindly room in whichfor more than half his life he had lived and worked--why had he forgottenit? It came forward greeting him with an amused smile, as of some oldfriend long parted from. The faded photos, in stiff, wooden frames uponthe chimney-piece, among them that of the fragile little woman with theunadaptable lungs. 

"God bless my soul!" said Mr. Peter Hope, pushing back his chair. "It'sthirty years ago. How time does fly! Why, let me see, I must be--"

"D'you like it with a head on it?" demanded Tommy, who had been waitingpatiently for signs. 

Peter shook himself awake and went to his supper. 

A bright idea occurred to Peter in the night. "Of course; why didn't Ithink of it before? Settle the question at once. " Peter fell into aneasy sleep. 

"Tommy, " said Peter, as he sat himself down to breakfast the nextmorning. "By-the-by, " asked Peter with a puzzled expression, puttingdown his cup, "what is this?"

"Cauffee, " informed him Tommy. "You said cauffee. "

"Oh!" replied Peter. "For the future, Tommy, if you don't mind, I willtake tea of a morning. "

"All the same to me, " explained the agreeable Tommy, "it's yourbreakfast. "

"What I was about to say, " continued Peter, "was that you're not lookingvery well, Tommy. "

"I'm all right, " asserted Tommy; "never nothing the matter with me. "

"Not that you know of, perhaps; but one can be in a very bad way, Tommy, without being aware of it. I cannot have anyone about me that I am notsure is in thoroughly sound health. "

"If you mean you've changed your mind and want to get rid of me--" beganTommy, with its chin in the air. 

"I don't want any of your uppishness, " snapped Peter, who had woundhimself up for the occasion to a degree of assertiveness that surprisedeven himself. "If you are a thoroughly strong and healthy person, as Ithink you are, I shall be very glad to retain your services. But uponthat point I must be satisfied. It is the custom, " explained Peter. "Itis always done in good families. Run round to this address"--Peter wroteit upon a leaf of his notebook--"and ask Dr. Smith to come and see mebefore he begins his round. You go at once, and don't let us have anyargument. "

"That is the way to talk to that young person--clearly, " said Peter tohimself, listening to Tommy's footsteps dying down the stairs. 

Hearing the street-door slam, Peter stole into the kitchen and brewedhimself a cup of coffee. 

Dr. Smith, who had commenced life as Herr Schmidt, but who in consequenceof difference of opinion with his Government was now an Englishman withstrong Tory prejudices, had but one sorrow: it was that strangers wouldmistake him for a foreigner. He was short and stout, with bushy eyebrowsand a grey moustache, and looked so fierce that children cried when theysaw him, until he patted them on the head and addressed them as "meinleedle frent" in a voice so soft and tender that they had to leave offhowling just to wonder where it came from. He and Peter, who was avehement Radical, had been cronies for many years, and had each anindulgent contempt for the other's understanding, tempered by a sincereaffection for one another they would have found it difficult to accountfor. 

"What tink you is de matter wid de leedle wench?" demanded Dr. Smith, Peter having opened the case. Peter glanced round the room. The kitchendoor was closed. 

"How do you know it's a wench?"

The eyes beneath the bushy brows grew rounder. "If id is not a wench, why dress it--"

"Haven't dressed it, " interrupted Peter. "Just what I'm waiting to do--sosoon as I know. "

And Peter recounted the events of the preceding evening. 

Tears gathered in the doctor's small, round eyes. His absurdsentimentalism was the quality in his friend that most irritated Peter. 

"Poor leedle waif!" murmured the soft-hearted old gentleman. "Id was degood Providence dat guided her--or him, whichever id be. "

"Providence be hanged!" snarled Peter. "What was my Providencedoing--landing me with a gutter-brat to look after?"

"So like you Radicals, " sneered the doctor, "to despise a fellow humancreature just because id may not have been born in burble and finelinen. "

"I didn't send for you to argue politics, " retorted Peter, controllinghis indignation by an effort. "I want you to tell me whether it's a boyor a girl, so that I may know what to do with it. "

"What mean you to do wid id?" inquired the doctor. 

"I don't know, " confessed Peter. "If it's a boy, as I rather think itis, maybe I'll be able to find it a place in one of the offices--afterI've taught it a little civilisation. "

"And if id be a girl?"

"How can it be a girl when it wears trousers?" demanded Peter. "Whyanticipate difficulties?"

Peter, alone, paced to and fro the room, his hands behind his back, hisear on the alert to catch the slightest sound from above. 

"I do hope it is a boy, " said Peter, glancing up. 

Peter's eyes rested on the photo of the fragile little woman gazing downat him from its stiff frame upon the chimney-piece. Thirty years ago, inthis same room, Peter had paced to and fro, his hands behind his back, his ear alert to catch the slightest sound from above, had said tohimself the same words. 

"It's odd, " mused Peter--"very odd indeed. "

The door opened. The stout doctor, preceded at a little distance by hiswatch-chain, entered and closed the door behind him. 

"A very healthy child, " said the doctor, "as fine a child as any onecould wish to see. A girl. "

The two old gentlemen looked at one another. Elizabeth, possiblyrelieved in her mind, began to purr. 

"What am I to do with it?" demanded Peter. 

"A very awkward bosition for you, " agreed the sympathetic doctor. 

"I was a fool!" declared Peter. 

"You haf no one here to look after de leedle wench when you are away, "pointed out the thoughtful doctor. 

"And from what I've seen of the imp, " added Peter, "it will want somelooking after. "

"I tink--I tink, " said the helpful doctor, "I see a way out!"

"What?"

The doctor thrust his fierce face forward and tapped knowingly with hisright forefinger the right side of his round nose. "I will take chargeof de leedle wench. "

"You?"

"To me de case will not present de same difficulties. I haf ahousekeeper. "

"Oh, yes, Mrs. Whateley. "

"She is a goot woman when you know her, " explained the doctor. "She onlywants managing. "

"Pooh!" ejaculated Peter. 

"Why do you say dat?" inquired the doctor. 

"You! bringing up a headstrong girl. The idea!"

"I should be kind, but firm. "

"You don't know her. "

"How long haf you known her?"

"Anyhow, I'm not a soft-hearted sentimentalist that would just ruin thechild. "

"Girls are not boys, " persisted the doctor; "dey want differenttreatment. "

"Well, I'm not a brute!" snarled Peter. "Besides, suppose she turns outrubbish! What do you know about her?"

"I take my chance, " agreed the generous doctor. 

"It wouldn't be fair, " retorted honest Peter. 

"Tink it over, " said the doctor. "A place is never home widout de leedlefeet. We Englishmen love de home. You are different. You haf nosentiment. "

"I cannot help feeling, " explained Peter, "a sense of duty in thismatter. The child came to me. It is as if this thing had been laid uponme. "

"If you look upon id dat way, Peter, " sighed the doctor. 

"With sentiment, " went on Peter, "I have nothing to do; but duty--duty isquite another thing. " Peter, feeling himself an ancient Roman, thankedthe doctor and shook hands with him. 

Tommy, summoned, appeared. 

"The doctor, Tommy, " said Peter, without looking up from his writing, "gives a very satisfactory account of you. So you can stop. "

"Told you so, " returned Tommy. "Might have saved your money. "

"But we shall have to find you another name. "

"What for?"

"If you are to be a housekeeper, you must be a girl. "

"Don't like girls. "

"Can't say I think much of them myself, Tommy. We must make the best ofit. To begin with, we must get you proper clothes. "

"Hate skirts. They hamper you. "

"Tommy, " said Peter severely, "don't argue. "

"Pointing out facts ain't arguing, " argued Tommy. "They do hamper you. You try 'em. "

The clothes were quickly made, and after a while they came to fit; butthe name proved more difficult of adjustment. A sweet-faced, laughinglady, known to fame by a title respectable and orthodox, appears anhonoured guest to-day at many a literary gathering. But the old fellows, pressing round, still call her "Tommy. "

The week's trial came to an end. Peter, whose digestion was delicate, had had a happy thought. 

"What I propose, Tommy--I mean Jane, " said Peter, "is that we should getin a woman to do just the mere cooking. That will give you more timeto--to attend to other things, Tommy--Jane, I mean. "

"What other things?" chin in the air. 

"The--the keeping of the rooms in order, Tommy. The--the dusting. "

"Don't want twenty-four hours a day to dust four rooms. "

"Then there are messages, Tommy. It would be a great advantage to me tohave someone I could send on a message without feeling I was interferingwith the housework. "

"What are you driving at?" demanded Tommy. "Why, I don't have halfenough to do as it is. I can do all--"

Peter put his foot down. "When I say a thing, I mean a thing. Thesooner you understand that, the better. How dare you argue with me!Fiddle-de-dee!" For two pins Peter would have employed an expletive evenstronger, so determined was he feeling. 

Tommy without another word left the room. Peter looked at Elizabeth andwinked. 

Poor Peter! His triumph was short-lived. Five minutes later, Tommyreturned, clad in the long, black skirt, supported by the cricket belt, the blue garibaldi cut _decollete_, the pepper-and-salt jacket, theworsted comforter, the red lips very tightly pressed, the long lashesover the black eyes moving very rapidly. 

"Tommy" (severely), "what is this tomfoolery?"

"I understand. I ain't no good to you. Thanks for giving me a trial. Myfault. "

"Tommy" (less severely), "don't be an idiot. "

"Ain't an idiot. 'Twas Emma. Told me I was good at cooking. Said I'dgot an aptitude for it. She meant well. "

"Tommy" (no trace of severity), "sit down. Emma was quite right. Yourcooking is--is promising. As Emma puts it, you have aptitude. Your--perseverance, your hopefulness proves it. "

"Then why d'ye want to get someone else in to do it?"

If Peter could have answered truthfully! If Peter could have replied:

"My dear, I am a lonely old gentleman. I did not know it until--untilthe other day. Now I cannot forget it again. Wife and child died manyyears ago. I was poor, or I might have saved them. That made me hard. The clock of my life stood still. I hid away the key. I did not want tothink. You crept to me out of the cruel fog, awakened old dreams. Donot go away any more"--perhaps Tommy, in spite of her fierceindependence, would have consented to be useful; and thus Peter mighthave gained his end at less cost of indigestion. But the penalty forbeing an anti-sentimentalist is that you must not talk like this even toyourself. So Peter had to cast about for other methods. 

"Why shouldn't I keep two servants if I like?" It did seem hard on theold gentleman. 

"What's the sense of paying two to do the work of one? You would only bekeeping me on out of charity. " The black eyes flashed. "I ain't abeggar. "

"And you really think, Tommy--I should say Jane, you can manage the--thewhole of it? You won't mind being sent on a message, perhaps in the verymiddle of your cooking. It was that I was thinking of, Tommy--some cookswould. "

"You go easy, " advised him Tommy, "till I complain of having too much todo. "

Peter returned to his desk. Elizabeth looked up. It seemed to Peterthat Elizabeth winked. 

The fortnight that followed was a period of trouble to Peter, for Tommy, her suspicions having been aroused, was sceptical of "business" demandingthat Peter should dine with this man at the club, lunch with this editorat the Cheshire Cheese. At once the chin would go up into the air, theblack eyes cloud threateningly. Peter, an unmarried man for thirtyyears, lacking experience, would under cross-examination contradicthimself, become confused, break down over essential points. 

"Really, " grumbled Peter to himself one evening, sawing at a mutton chop, "really there's no other word for it--I'm henpecked. "

Peter that day had looked forward to a little dinner at a favouriterestaurant, with his "dear old friend Blenkinsopp, a bit of a gourmet, Tommy--that means a man who likes what you would call elaboratecooking!"--forgetful at the moment that he had used up "Blenkinsopp"three days before for a farewell supper, "Blenkinsopp" having to set outthe next morning for Egypt. Peter was not facile at invention. Names inparticular had always been a difficulty to him. 

"I like a spirit of independence, " continued Peter to himself. "Wish shehadn't quite so much of it. Wonder where she got it from. "

The situation was becoming more serious to Peter than he cared to admit. For day by day, in spite of her tyrannies, Tommy was growing more andmore indispensable to Peter. Tommy was the first audience that forthirty years had laughed at Peter's jokes; Tommy was the first publicthat for thirty years had been convinced that Peter was the mostbrilliant journalist in Fleet Street; Tommy was the first anxiety thatfor thirty years had rendered it needful that Peter each night shouldmount stealthily the creaking stairs, steal with shaded candle to abedside. If only Tommy wouldn't "do" for him! If only she could bepersuaded to "do" something else. 

Another happy thought occurred to Peter. 

"Tommy--I mean Jane, " said Peter, "I know what I'll do with you. "

"What's the game now?"

"I'll make a journalist of you. "

"Don't talk rot. "

"It isn't rot. Besides, I won't have you answer me like that. As aDevil--that means, Tommy, the unseen person in the background that helpsa journalist to do his work--you would be invaluable to me. It would payme, Tommy--pay me very handsomely. I should make money out of you. "

This appeared to be an argument that Tommy understood. Peter, withsecret delight, noticed that the chin retained its normal level. 

"I did help a chap to sell papers, once, " remembered Tommy; "he said Iwas fly at it. "

"I told you so, " exclaimed Peter triumphantly. "The methods aredifferent, but the instinct required is the same. We will get a woman into relieve you of the housework. "

The chin shot up into the air. 

"I could do it in my spare time. "

"You see, Tommy, I should want you to go about with me--to be always withme. "

"Better try me first. Maybe you're making an error. "

Peter was learning the wisdom of the serpent. 

"Quite right, Tommy. We will first see what you can do. Perhaps, afterall, it may turn out that you are better as a cook. " In his heart Peterdoubted this. 

But the seed had fallen upon good ground. It was Tommy herself thatmanoeuvred her first essay in journalism. A great man had come toLondon--was staying in apartments especially prepared for him in St. James's Palace. Said every journalist in London to himself: "If I couldobtain an interview with this Big Man, what a big thing it would be forme!" For a week past, Peter had carried everywhere about with him apaper headed: "Interview of Our Special Correspondent with Prince Blank, "questions down left-hand column, very narrow; space for answers right-hand side, very wide. But the Big Man was experienced. 

"I wonder, " said Peter, spreading the neatly folded paper on the deskbefore him, "I wonder if there can be any way of getting at him--anydodge or trick, any piece of low cunning, any plausible lie that Ihaven't thought of. "

"Old Man Martin--called himself Martini--was just such another, "commented Tommy. "Come pay time, Saturday afternoon, you just couldn'tget at him--simply wasn't any way. I was a bit too good for him once, though, " remembered Tommy, with a touch of pride in her voice; "got halfa quid out of him that time. It did surprise him. "

"No, " communed Peter to himself aloud, "I don't honestly think there canbe any method, creditable or discreditable, that I haven't tried. " Peterflung the one-sided interview into the wastepaper-basket, and slippinghis notebook into his pocket, departed to drink tea with a lady novelist, whose great desire, as stated in a postscript to her invitation, was toavoid publicity, if possible. 

Tommy, as soon as Peter's back was turned, fished it out again. 

An hour later in the fog around St. James's Palace stood an Imp, clad inpatched trousers and a pepper-and-salt jacket turned up about the neck, gazing with admiring eyes upon the sentry. 

"Now, then, young seventeen-and-sixpence the soot, " said the sentry, "what do you want?"

"Makes you a bit anxious, don't it, " suggested the Imp, "having a big potlike him to look after?"

"Does get a bit on yer mind, if yer thinks about it, " agreed the sentry. 

"How do you find him to talk to, like?"

"Well, " said the sentry, bringing his right leg into action for thepurpose of relieving his left, "ain't 'ad much to do with 'im myself, notperson'ly, as yet. Oh, 'e ain't a bad sort when yer know 'im. "

"That's his shake-down, ain't it?" asked the Imp, "where the lights are. "

"That's it, " admitted sentry. "You ain't an Anarchist? Tell me if youare. "

"I'll let you know if I feel it coming on, " the Imp assured him. 

Had the sentry been a man of swift and penetrating observation--which hewasn't--he might have asked the question in more serious a tone. For hewould have remarked that the Imp's black eyes were resting lovingly upona rain-water-pipe, giving to a skilful climber easy access to the terraceunderneath the Prince's windows. 

"I would like to see him, " said the Imp. 

"Friend o' yours?" asked the sentry. 

"Well, not exactly, " admitted the Imp. "But there, you know, everybody'stalking about him down our street. "

"Well, yer'll 'ave to be quick about it, " said the sentry. "'E's off to-night. "

Tommy's face fell. "I thought it wasn't till Friday morning. "

"Ah!" said the sentry, "that's what the papers say, is it?" The sentry'svoice took unconsciously the accent of those from whom no secret is hid. "I'll tell yer what yer can do, " continued the sentry, enjoying anunaccustomed sense of importance. The sentry glanced left, then right. "'E's a slipping off all by 'imself down to Osborne by the 6. 40 fromWaterloo. Nobody knows it--'cept, o' course, just a few of us. That's'is way all over. 'E just 'ates--"

A footstep sounded down the corridor. The sentry became statuesque. 

At Waterloo, Tommy inspected the 6. 40 train. Only one compartmentindicated possibilities, an extra large one at the end of the coach nextthe guard's van. It was labelled "Reserved, " and in the place of theusual fittings was furnished with a table and four easy-chairs. Havingnoticed its position, Tommy took a walk up the platform and disappearedinto the fog. 

Twenty minutes later, Prince Blank stepped hurriedly across the platform, unnoticed save by half a dozen obsequious officials, and entered thecompartment reserved for him. The obsequious officials bowed. PrinceBlank, in military fashion, raised his hand. The 6. 40 steamed outslowly. 

Prince Blank, who was a stout gentleman, though he tried to disguise thefact, seldom found himself alone. When he did, he generally indulgedhimself in a little healthy relaxation. With two hours' run toSouthampton before him, free from all possibility of intrusion, PrinceBlank let loose the buttons of his powerfully built waistcoat, rested hisbald head on the top of his chair, stretched his great legs acrossanother, and closed his terrible, small eyes. 

For an instant it seemed to Prince Blank that a draught had entered intothe carriage. As, however, the sensation immediately passed away, he didnot trouble to wake up. Then the Prince dreamed that somebody was in thecarriage with him--was sitting opposite to him. This being an annoyingsort of dream, the Prince opened his eyes for the purpose of dispellingit. There was somebody sitting opposite to him--a very grimy littleperson, wiping blood off its face and hands with a dingy handkerchief. Had the Prince been a man capable of surprise, he would have beensurprised. 

"It's all right, " assured him Tommy. "I ain't here to do any harm. Iain't an Anarchist. "

The Prince, by a muscular effort, retired some four or five inches andcommenced to rebutton his waistcoat. 

"How did you get here?" asked the Prince. 

"'Twas a bigger job than I'd reckoned on, " admitted Tommy, seeking a dryinch in the smeared handkerchief, and finding none. "But that don'tmatter, " added Tommy cheerfully, "now I'm here. "

"If you do not wish me to hand you over to the police at Southampton, youhad better answer my questions, " remarked the Prince drily. 

Tommy was not afraid of princes, but in the lexicon of her harassed youth"Police" had always been a word of dread. 

"I wanted to get at you. "

"I gather that. "

"There didn't seem any other way. It's jolly difficult to get at you. You're so jolly artful. "

"Tell me how you managed it. "

"There's a little bridge for signals just outside Waterloo. I could seethat the train would have to pass under it. So I climbed up and waited. It being a foggy night, you see, nobody twigged me. I say, you arePrince Blank, ain't you?"

"I am Prince Blank. "

"Should have been mad if I'd landed the wrong man. "

"Go on. "

"I knew which was your carriage--leastways, I guessed it; and as it camealong, I did a drop. " Tommy spread out her arms and legs to illustratethe action. "The lamps, you know, " explained Tommy, still dabbing at herface--"one of them caught me. "

"And from the roof?"

"Oh, well, it was easy after that. There's an iron thing at the back, and steps. You've only got to walk downstairs and round the corner, andthere you are. Bit of luck your other door not being locked. I hadn'tthought of that. Haven't got such a thing as a handkerchief about you, have you?"

The Prince drew one from his sleeve and passed it to her. "You mean totell me, boy--"

"Ain't a boy, " explained Tommy. "I'm a girl!"

She said it sadly. Deeming her new friends such as could be trusted, Tommy had accepted their statement that she really was a girl. But formany a long year to come the thought of her lost manhood tinged her voicewith bitterness. 

"A girl!"

Tommy nodded her head. 

"Umph!" said the Prince; "I have heard a good deal about the Englishgirl. I was beginning to think it exaggerated. Stand up. "

Tommy obeyed. It was not altogether her way; but with those eyes beneaththeir shaggy brows bent upon her, it seemed the simplest thing to do. 

"So. And now that you are here, what do you want?"

"To interview you. "

Tommy drew forth her list of questions. 

The shaggy brows contracted. 

"Who put you up to this absurdity? Who was it? Tell me at once. "

"Nobody. "

"Don't lie to me. His name?"

The terrible, small eyes flashed fire. But Tommy also had a pair ofeyes. Before their blaze of indignation the great man positivelyquailed. This type of opponent was new to him. 

"I'm not lying. "

"I beg your pardon, " said the Prince. 

And at this point it occurred to the Prince, who being really a greatman, had naturally a sense of humour, that a conference conducted onthese lines between the leading statesman of an Empire and an impertinenthussy of, say, twelve years old at the outside, might end by becomingridiculous. So the Prince took up his chair and put it down again besideTommy's, and employing skilfully his undoubted diplomatic gifts, drewfrom her bit by bit the whole story. 

"I'm inclined, Miss Jane, " said the Great Man, the story ended, "to agreewith our friend Mr. Hope. I should say your _metier_ was journalism. "

"And you'll let me interview you?" asked Tommy, showing her white teeth. 

The Great Man, laying a hand heavier than he guessed on Tommy's shoulder, rose. "I think you are entitled to it. "

"What's your views?" demanded Tommy, reading, "of the future politicaland social relationships--"

"Perhaps, " suggested the Great Man, "it will be simpler if I write itmyself. "

"Well, " concurred Tommy; "my spelling is a bit rocky. "

The Great Man drew a chair to the table. 

"You won't miss out anything--will you?" insisted Tommy. 

"I shall endeavour, Miss Jane, to give you no cause for complaint, "gravely he assured her, and sat down to write. 

Not till the train began to slacken speed had the Prince finished. Then, blotting and refolding the paper, he stood up. 

"I have added some instructions on the back of the last page, " explainedthe Prince, "to which you will draw Mr. Hope's particular attention. Iwould wish you to promise me, Miss Jane, never again to have recourse todangerous acrobatic tricks, not even in the sacred cause of journalism. "

"Of course, if you hadn't been so jolly difficult to get at--"

"My fault, I know, " agreed the Prince. "There is not the least doubt asto which sex you belong to. Nevertheless, I want you to promise me. Come, " urged the Prince, "I have done a good deal for you--more than youknow. "

"All right, " consented Tommy a little sulkily. Tommy hated makingpromises, because she always kept them. "I promise. "

"There is your Interview. " The first Southampton platform lamp shone inupon the Prince and Tommy as they stood facing one another. The Prince, who had acquired the reputation, not altogether unjustly, of anill-tempered and savage old gentleman, did a strange thing: taking thelittle, blood-smeared face between his paws, he kissed it. Tommy alwaysremembered the smoky flavour of the bristly grey moustache. 

"One thing more, " said the Prince sternly--"not a word of all this. Don'topen your mouth to speak of it till you are back in Gough Square. "

"Do you take me for a mug?" answered Tommy. 

They behaved very oddly to Tommy after the Prince had disappeared. Everybody took a deal of trouble for her, but none of them seemed to knowwhy they were doing it. They looked at her and went away, and came againand looked at her. And the more they thought about it, the more puzzledthey became. Some of them asked her questions, but what Tommy reallydidn't know, added to what she didn't mean to tell, was so prodigiousthat Curiosity itself paled at contemplation of it. 

They washed and brushed her up and gave her an excellent supper; andputting her into a first-class compartment labelled "Reserved, " sent herback to Waterloo, and thence in a cab to Gough Square, where she arrivedabout midnight, suffering from a sense of self-importance, traces ofwhich to this day are still discernible. 

Such and thus was the beginning of all things. Tommy, having talked forhalf an hour at the rate of two hundred words a minute, had suddenlydropped her head upon the table, had been aroused with difficulty andpersuaded to go to bed. Peter, in the deep easy-chair before the fire, sat long into the night. Elizabeth, liking quiet company, purred softly. Out of the shadows crept to Peter Hope an old forgotten dream--the dreamof a wonderful new Journal, price one penny weekly, of which the Editorshould come to be one Thomas Hope, son of Peter Hope, its honouredFounder and Originator: a powerful Journal that should supply a long-feltwant, popular, but at the same time elevating--a pleasure to the public, a profit to its owners. "Do you not remember me?" whispered the Dream. "We had long talks together. The morning and the noonday pass. Theevening still is ours. The twilight also brings its promise. "

Elizabeth stopped purring and looked up surprised. Peter was laughing tohimself. 

STORY THE SECOND--William Clodd appoints himself Managing Director

Mrs. Postwhistle sat on a Windsor-chair in the centre of Rolls Court. Mrs. Postwhistle, who, in the days of her Hebehood, had been likened byadmiring frequenters of the old Mitre in Chancery Lane to the ladies, somewhat emaciated, that an English artist, since become famous, was thencommencing to popularise, had developed with the passing years, yet stillretained a face of placid youthfulness. The two facts, taken inconjunction, had resulted in an asset to her income not to be despised. The wanderer through Rolls Court this summer's afternoon, presuming himto be familiar with current journalism, would have retired haunted by thesense that the restful-looking lady on the Windsor-chair was someone thathe ought to know. Glancing through almost any illustrated paper of theperiod, the problem would have been solved for him. A photograph of Mrs. Postwhistle, taken quite recently, he would have encountered with thislegend: "_Before_ use of Professor Hardtop's certain cure forcorpulency. " Beside it a photograph of Mrs. Postwhistle, then ArabellaHiggins, taken twenty years ago, the legend slightly varied: "_After_use, " etc. The face was the same, the figure--there was no denyingit--had undergone decided alteration. 

Mrs. Postwhistle had reached with her chair the centre of Rolls Court incourse of following the sun. The little shop, over the lintel of whichran: "Timothy Postwhistle, Grocer and Provision Merchant, " she had leftbehind her in the shadow. Old inhabitants of St. Dunstan-in-the-Westretained recollection of a gentlemanly figure, always in a very gorgeouswaistcoat, with Dundreary whiskers, to be seen occasionally there behindthe counter. All customers it would refer, with the air of a Lord HighChamberlain introducing _debutantes_, to Mrs. Postwhistle, evidentlyregarding itself purely as ornamental. For the last ten years, however, no one had noticed it there, and Mrs. Postwhistle had a facilityamounting almost to genius for ignoring or misunderstanding questions itwas not to her taste to answer. Most things were suspected, nothingknown. St. Dunstan-in-the-West had turned to other problems. 

"If I wasn't wanting to see 'im, " remarked to herself Mrs. Postwhistle, who was knitting with one eye upon the shop, "'e'd a been 'ere 'fore I'd'ad time to clear the dinner things away; certain to 'ave been. It's astrange world. "

Mrs. Postwhistle was desirous for the arrival of a gentleman not usuallyawaited with impatience by the ladies of Rolls Court--to wit, one WilliamClodd, rent-collector, whose day for St. Dunstan-in-the-West was Tuesday. 

"At last, " said Mrs. Postwhistle, though without hope that Mr. Clodd, whohad just appeared at the other end of the court, could possibly hear her. "Was beginning to be afraid as you'd tumbled over yerself in your 'urryand 'urt yerself. "

Mr. Clodd, perceiving Mrs. Postwhistle, decided to abandon method andtake No. 7 first. 

Mr. Clodd was a short, thick-set, bullet-headed young man, with ways thatwere bustling, and eyes that, though kind, suggested trickiness. 

"Ah!" said Mr. Clodd admiringly, as he pocketed the six half-crowns thatthe lady handed up to him. "If only they were all like you, Mrs. Postwhistle!"

"Wouldn't be no need of chaps like you to worry 'em, " pointed out Mrs. Postwhistle. 

"It's an irony of fate, my being a rent-collector, when you come to thinkof it, " remarked Mr. Clodd, writing out the receipt. "If I had my way, I'd put an end to landlordism, root and branch. Curse of the country. "

"Just the very thing I wanted to talk to you about, " returned thelady--"that lodger o' mine. "

"Ah! don't pay, don't he? You just hand him over to me. I'll soon haveit out of him. "

"It's not that, " explained Mrs. Postwhistle. "If a Saturday morning'appened to come round as 'e didn't pay up without me asking, I shouldknow I'd made a mistake--that it must be Friday. If I don't 'appen to bein at 'alf-past ten, 'e puts it in an envelope and leaves it on thetable. "

"Wonder if his mother has got any more like him?" mused Mr. Clodd. "Coulddo with a few about this neighbourhood. What is it you want to say abouthim, then? Merely to brag about him?"

"I wanted to ask you, " continued Mrs. Postwhistle, "'ow I could get ridof 'im. It was rather a curious agreement. "

"Why do you want to get rid of him? Too noisy?"

"Noisy! Why, the cat makes more noise about the 'ouse than 'e does. 'E'dmake 'is fortune as a burglar. "

"Come home late?"

"Never known 'im out after the shutters are up. "

"Gives you too much trouble then?"

"I can't say that of 'im. Never know whether 'e's in the 'ouse or isn't, without going upstairs and knocking at the door. "

"Here, you tell it your own way, " suggested the bewildered Clodd. "If itwas anyone else but you, I should say you didn't know your own business. "

"'E gets on my nerves, " said Mrs. Postwhistle. "You ain't in a 'urry forfive minutes?"

Mr. Clodd was always in a hurry. "But I can forget it talking to you, "added the gallant Mr. Clodd. 

Mrs. Postwhistle led the way into the little parlour. 

"Just the name of it, " consented Mr. Clodd. "Cheerfulness combined withtemperance; that's the ideal. "

"I'll tell you what 'appened only last night, " commenced Mrs. Postwhistle, seating herself the opposite side of the loo-table. "Aletter came for 'im by the seven o'clock post. I'd seen 'im go out twohours before, and though I'd been sitting in the shop the whole blessedtime, I never saw or 'eard 'im pass through. E's like that. It's like'aving a ghost for a lodger. I opened 'is door without knocking and wentin. If you'll believe me, 'e was clinging with 'is arms and legs to thetop of the bedstead--it's one of those old-fashioned, four-postthings--'is 'ead touching the ceiling. 'E 'adn't got too much clotheson, and was cracking nuts with 'is teeth and eating 'em. 'E threw a'andful of shells at me, and making the most awful faces at me, startedoff gibbering softly to himself. "

"All play, I suppose? No real vice?" commented the interested Mr. Clodd. 

"It will go on for a week, that will, " continued Mrs. Postwhistle--"'efancying 'imself a monkey. Last week he was a tortoise, and was crawlingabout on his stomach with a tea-tray tied on to 'is back. 'E's assensible as most men, if that's saying much, the moment 'e's outside thefront door; but in the 'ouse--well, I suppose the fact is that 'e's alunatic. "

"Don't seem no hiding anything from you, " Mrs. Postwhistle remarked Mr. Clodd in tones of admiration. "Does he ever get violent?"

"Don't know what 'e would be like if 'e 'appened to fancy 'imselfsomething really dangerous, " answered Mrs. Postwhistle. "I am a bitnervous of this new monkey game, I don't mind confessing to you--thethings that they do according to the picture-books. Up to now, exceptfor imagining 'imself a mole, and taking all his meals underneath thecarpet, it's been mostly birds and cats and 'armless sort o' things I'aven't seemed to mind so much. "

"How did you get hold of him?" demanded Mr. Clodd. "Have much trouble infinding him, or did somebody come and tell you about him?"

"Old Gladman, of Chancery Lane, the law stationer, brought 'im 'ere oneevening about two months ago--said 'e was a sort of distant relative of'is, a bit soft in the 'ead, but perfectly 'armless--wanted to put 'imwith someone who wouldn't impose on 'im. Well, what between 'aving beenempty for over five weeks, the poor old gaby 'imself looking as gentle asa lamb, and the figure being reasonable, I rather jumped at the idea; andold Gladman, explaining as 'ow 'e wanted the thing settled and done with, got me to sign a letter. "

"Kept a copy of it?" asked the business-like Clodd. 

"No. But I can remember what it was. Gladman 'ad it all ready. So longas the money was paid punctual and 'e didn't make no disturbance anddidn't fall sick, I was to go on boarding and lodging 'im for seventeen-and-sixpence a week. It didn't strike me as anything to be objected toat the time; but 'e payin' regular, as I've explained to you, andbe'aving, so far as disturbance is concerned, more like a Christianmartyr than a man, well, it looks to me as if I'd got to live and diewith 'im. "

"Give him rope, and possibly he'll have a week at being a howling hyaena, or a laughing jackass, or something of that sort that will lead to adisturbance, " thought Mr. Clodd, "in which case, of course, you wouldhave your remedy. "

"Yes, " thought Mrs. Postwhistle, "and possibly also 'e may take it intowhat 'e calls is 'ead to be a tiger or a bull, and then perhaps before'e's through with it I'll be beyond the reach of remedies. "

"Leave it to me, " said Mr. Clodd, rising and searching for his hat. "Iknow old Gladman; I'll have a talk with him. "

"You might get a look at that letter if you can, " suggested Mrs. Postwhistle, "and tell me what you think about it. I don't want to spendthe rest of my days in a lunatic asylum of my own if I can 'elp it. "

"You leave it to me, " was Mr. Clodd's parting assurance. 

The July moon had thrown a silver veil over the grimness of Rolls Courtwhen, five hours later, Mr. Clodd's nailed boots echoed again upon itsuneven pavement; but Mr. Clodd had no eye for moon or stars or such-like;always he had things more important to think of. 

"Seen the old 'umbug?" asked Mrs. Postwhistle, who was partial to theair, leading the way into the parlour. 

"First and foremost commenced, " Mr. Clodd, as he laid aside his hat, "itis quite understood that you really do want to get rid of him? What'sthat?" demanded Mr. Clodd, a heavy thud upon the floor above havingcaused him to start out of his chair. 

"'E came in an hour after you'd gone, " explained Mrs. Postwhistle, "bringing with him a curtain pole as 'e'd picked up for a shilling inClare Market. 'E's rested one end upon the mantelpiece and tied theother to the back of the easy-chair--'is idea is to twine 'imself roundit and go to sleep upon it. Yes, you've got it quite right without asingle blunder. I do want to get rid of 'im. "

"Then, " said Mr. Clodd, reseating himself, "it can be done. "

"Thank God for that!" was Mrs. Postwhistle's pious ejaculation. 

"It is just as I thought, " continued Mr. Clodd. "The old innocent--he'sGladman's brother-in-law, by the way--has got a small annuity. Icouldn't get the actual figure, but I guess it's about sufficient to payfor his keep and leave old Gladman, who is running him, a very decentprofit. They don't want to send him to an asylum. They can't say he's apauper, and to put him into a private establishment would swallow up, most likely, the whole of his income. On the other hand, they don't wantthe bother of looking after him themselves. I talked pretty straight tothe old man--let him see I understood the business; and--well, to cut along story short, I'm willing to take on the job, provided you reallywant to have done with it, and Gladman is willing in that case to let youoff your contract. "

Mrs. Postwhistle went to the cupboard to get Mr. Clodd a drink. Anotherthud upon the floor above--one suggestive of exceptional velocity--arrivedat the precise moment when Mrs. Postwhistle, the tumbler level with hereye, was in the act of measuring. 

"I call this making a disturbance, " said Mrs. Postwhistle, regarding thebroken fragments. 

"It's only for another night, " comforted her Mr. Clodd. "I'll take himaway some time to-morrow. Meanwhile, if I were you, I should spread amattress underneath that perch of his before I went to bed. I shouldlike him handed over to me in reasonable repair. "

"It will deaden the sound a bit, any'ow, " agreed Mrs. Postwhistle. 

"Success to temperance, " drank Mr. Clodd, and rose to go. 

"I take it you've fixed things up all right for yourself, " said Mrs. Postwhistle; "and nobody can blame you if you 'ave. 'Eaven bless you, iswhat I say. "

"We shall get on together, " prophesied Mr. Clodd. "I'm fond of animals. "

Early the next morning a four-wheeled cab drew up at the entrance toRolls Court, and in it and upon it went away Clodd and Clodd's Lunatic(as afterwards he came to be known), together with all the belongings ofClodd's Lunatic, the curtain-pole included; and there appeared againbehind the fanlight of the little grocer's shop the intimation: "Lodgingsfor a Single Man, " which caught the eye a few days later of aweird-looking, lanky, rawboned laddie, whose language Mrs. Postwhistlefound difficulty for a time in comprehending; and that is why onesometimes meets to-day worshippers of Kail Yard literature wanderingdisconsolately about St. Dunstan-in-the-West, seeking Rolls Court, discomforted because it is no more. But that is the history of the "WeeLaddie, " and this of the beginnings of William Clodd, now Sir WilliamClodd, Bart. , M. P. , proprietor of a quarter of a hundred newspapers, magazines, and journals: "Truthful Billy" we called him then. 

No one can say of Clodd that he did not deserve whatever profit hisunlicensed lunatic asylum may have brought him. A kindly man was WilliamClodd when indulgence in sentiment did not interfere with business. 

"There's no harm in him, " asserted Mr. Clodd, talking the matter overwith one Mr. Peter Hope, journalist, of Gough Square. "He's just a bitdotty, same as you or I might get with nothing to do and all day long todo it in. Kid's play, that's all it is. The best plan, I find, is totreat it as a game and take a hand in it. Last week he wanted to be alion. I could see that was going to be awkward, he roaring for raw meatand thinking to prowl about the house at night. Well, I didn't naghim--that's no good. I just got a gun and shot him. He's a duck now, and I'm trying to keep him one: sits for an hour beside his bath on threechina eggs I've bought him. Wish some of the sane ones were as littletrouble. "

The summer came again. Clodd and his Lunatic, a mild-looking little oldgentleman of somewhat clerical cut, one often met with arm-in-arm, bustling about the streets and courts that were the scene of Clodd's rent-collecting labours. Their evident attachment to one another wascuriously displayed; Clodd, the young and red-haired, treating his white-haired, withered companion with fatherly indulgence; the other glancingup from time to time into Clodd's face with a winning expression ofinfantile affection. 

"We are getting much better, " explained Clodd, the pair meeting PeterHope one day at the corner of Newcastle Street. "The more we are out inthe open air, and the more we have to do and think about, the better forus--eh?"

The mild-looking little old gentleman hanging on Clodd's arm smiled andnodded. 

"Between ourselves, " added Mr. Clodd, sinking his voice, "we are not halfas foolish as folks think we are. "

Peter Hope went his way down the Strand. 

"Clodd's a good sort--a good sort, " said Peter Hope, who, having in histime lived much alone, had fallen into the habit of speaking his thoughtsaloud; "but he's not the man to waste his time. I wonder. "

With the winter Clodd's Lunatic fell ill. 

Clodd bustled round to Chancery Lane. 

"To tell you the truth, " confessed Mr. Gladman, "we never thought hewould live so long as he has. "

"There's the annuity you've got to think of, " said Clodd, whom hisadmirers of to-day (and they are many, for he must be a millionaire bythis time) are fond of alluding to as "that frank, outspoken Englishman. ""Wouldn't it be worth your while to try what taking him away from thefogs might do for him?"

Old Gladman seemed inclined to consider the question, but Mrs. Gladman, abrisk, cheerful little woman, had made up her mind. 

"We've had what there is to have, " said Mrs. Gladman. "He'sseventy-three. What's the sense of risking good money? Be content. "

No one could say--no one ever did say--that Clodd, under thecircumstances, did not do his best. Perhaps, after all, nothing couldhave helped. The little old gentleman, at Clodd's suggestion, played atbeing a dormouse and lay very still. If he grew restless, therebybringing on his cough, Clodd, as a terrible black cat, was watching topounce upon him. Only by keeping very quiet and artfully pretending tobe asleep could he hope to escape the ruthless Clodd. 

Doctor William Smith (ne Wilhelm Schmidt) shrugged his fat shoulders. "Wecan do noding. Dese fogs of ours: id is de one ting dat enables theforeigner to crow over us. Keep him quiet. De dormouse--id is a gootidea. "

That evening William Clodd mounted to the second floor of 16, GoughSquare, where dwelt his friend, Peter Hope, and knocked briskly at thedoor. 

"Come in, " said a decided voice, which was not Peter Hope's. 

Mr. William Clodd's ambition was, and always had been, to be the owner orpart-owner of a paper. To-day, as I have said, he owns a quarter of ahundred, and is in negotiation, so rumour goes, for seven more. Buttwenty years ago "Clodd and Co. , Limited, " was but in embryo. And PeterHope, journalist, had likewise and for many a long year cherished theambition to be, before he died, the owner or part-owner of a paper. PeterHope to-day owns nothing, except perhaps the knowledge, if such things bepermitted, that whenever and wherever his name is mentioned, kindthoughts arise unbidden--that someone of the party will surely say: "Dearold Peter! What a good fellow he was!" Which also may be in its way avaluable possession: who knows? But twenty years ago Peter's horizon waslimited by Fleet Street. 

Peter Hope was forty-seven, so he said, a dreamer and a scholar. WilliamClodd was three-and-twenty, a born hustler, very wide awake. Meeting oneday by accident upon an omnibus, when Clodd lent Peter, who had come outwithout his purse, threepence to pay his fare with; drifting intoacquaintanceship, each had come to acquire a liking and respect for theother. The dreamer thought with wonder of Clodd's shrewd practicability;the cute young man of business was lost in admiration of what seemed tohim his old friend's marvellous learning. Both had arrived at theconclusion that a weekly journal with Peter Hope as editor, and WilliamClodd as manager, would be bound to be successful. 

"If only we could scrape together a thousand pounds!" had sighed Peter. 

"The moment we lay our hands upon the coin, we'll start that paper. Remember, it's a bargain, " had answered William Clodd. 

Mr. William Clodd turned the handle and walked in. With the door stillin his hand he paused to look round the room. It was the first time hehad seen it. His meetings hitherto with Peter Hope had been chance_rencontres_ in street or restaurant. Always had he been curious to viewthe sanctuary of so much erudition. 

A large, oak-panelled room, its three high windows, each with a low, cushioned seat beneath it, giving on to Gough Square. Thirty-five yearsbefore, Peter Hope, then a young dandy with side whiskers close-croppedand terminating just below the ear; with wavy, brown hair, giving to hisfresh-complexioned face an appearance almost girlish; in cut-away bluecoat, flowered waistcoat, black silk cravat secured by two gold pinschained together, and tightly strapped grey trouserings, had, aided andabetted by a fragile little lady in crinoline and much-flounced skirt, and bodice somewhat low, with corkscrew curls each movement of her headset ringing, planned and furnished it in accordance with the sober canonsthen in vogue, spending thereupon more than they should, as is to beexpected from the young to whom the future promises all things. The fineBrussels carpet! A little too bright, had thought the shaking curls. "The colours will tone down, miss--ma'am. " The shopman knew. Only bythe help of the round island underneath the massive Empire table, byexcursions into untrodden corners, could Peter recollect the rainbowfloor his feet had pressed when he was twenty-one. The noble bookcase, surmounted by Minerva's bust. Really it was too expensive. But thenodding curls had been so obstinate. Peter's silly books and papers mustbe put away in order; the curls did not intend to permit any excuse foruntidiness. So, too, the handsome, brass-bound desk; it must be worthyof the beautiful thoughts Peter would pen upon it. The great sideboard, supported by two such angry-looking mahogany lions; it must be strong tosupport the weight of silver clever Peter would one day purchase to placeupon it. The few oil paintings in their heavy frames. A solidlyfurnished, sober apartment; about it that subtle atmosphere of dignityone finds but in old rooms long undisturbed, where one seems to read uponthe walls: "I, Joy and Sorrow, twain in one, have dwelt here. " One itemonly there was that seemed out of place among its grave surroundings--aguitar, hanging from the wall, ornamented with a ridiculous blue bow, somewhat faded. 

"Mr. William Clodd?" demanded the decided voice. 

Clodd started and closed the door. 

"Guessed it in once, " admitted Mr. Clodd. 

"I thought so, " said the decided voice. "We got your note thisafternoon. Mr. Hope will be back at eight. Will you kindly hang up yourhat and coat in the hall? You will find a box of cigars on themantelpiece. Excuse my being busy. I must finish this, then I'll talkto you. "

The owner of the decided voice went on writing. Clodd, having done as hewas bid, sat himself in the easy-chair before the fire and smoked. Ofthe person behind the desk Mr. Clodd could see but the head andshoulders. It had black, curly hair, cut short. It's only garmentvisible below the white collar and red tie might have been a boy's jacketdesigned more like a girl's, or a girl's designed more like a boy's;partaking of the genius of English statesmanship, it appeared to be acompromise. Mr. Clodd remarked the long, drooping lashes over thebright, black eyes. 

"It's a girl, " said Mr. Clodd to himself; "rather a pretty girl. "

Mr. Clodd, continuing downward, arrived at the nose. 

"No, " said Mr. Clodd to himself, "it's a boy--a cheeky young beggar, Ishould say. "

The person at the desk, giving a grunt of satisfaction, gathered togethersheets of manuscript and arranged them; then, resting its elbows on thedesk and taking its head between its hands, regarded Mr. Clodd. 

"Don't you hurry yourself, " said Mr. Clodd; "but when you really havefinished, tell me what you think of me. "

"I beg your pardon, " apologised the person at the desk. "I have got intoa habit of staring at people. I know it's rude. I'm trying to breakmyself of it. "

"Tell me your name, " suggested Mr. Clodd, "and I'll forgive you. "

"Tommy, " was the answer--"I mean Jane. "

"Make up your mind, " advised Mr. Clodd; "don't let me influence you. Ionly want the truth. "

"You see, " explained the person at the desk, "everybody calls me Tommy, because that used to be my name. But now it's Jane. "

"I see, " said Mr. Clodd. "And which am I to call you?"

The person at the desk pondered. "Well, if this scheme you and Mr. Hopehave been talking about really comes to anything, we shall be a good dealthrown together, you see, and then I expect you'll call me Tommy--mostpeople do. "

"You've heard about the scheme? Mr. Hope has told you?"

"Why, of course, " replied Tommy. "I'm Mr. Hope's devil. "

For the moment Clodd doubted whether his old friend had not started arival establishment to his own. 

"I help him in his work, " Tommy relieved his mind by explaining. "Injournalistic circles we call it devilling. "

"I understand, " said Mr. Clodd. "And what do you think, Tommy, of thescheme? I may as well start calling you Tommy, because, between you andme, I think the idea will come to something. "

Tommy fixed her black eyes upon him. She seemed to be looking him rightthrough. 

"You are staring again, Tommy, " Clodd reminded her. "You'll have troublebreaking yourself of that habit, I can see. "

"I was trying to make up my mind about you. Everything depends upon thebusiness man. "

"Glad to hear you say so, " replied the self-satisfied Clodd. 

"If you are very clever--Do you mind coming nearer to the lamp? I can'tquite see you over there. "

Clodd never could understand why he did it--never could understand why, from first to last, he always did what Tommy wished him to do; his onlyconsolation being that other folks seemed just as helpless. He rose and, crossing the long room, stood at attention before the large desk, nervousness, to which he was somewhat of a stranger, taking possession ofhim. 

"You don't _look_ very clever. "

Clodd experienced another new sensation--that of falling in his ownestimation. 

"And yet one can see that you _are_ clever. "

The mercury of Clodd's conceit shot upward to a point that in the case ofanyone less physically robust might have been dangerous to health. 

Clodd held out his hand. "We'll pull it through, Tommy. The Guv'norshall find the literature; you and I will make it go. I like you. "

And Peter Hope, entering at the moment, caught a spark from the lightthat shone in the eyes of William Clodd and Tommy, whose other name wasJane, as, gripping hands, they stood with the desk between them, laughingthey knew not why. And the years fell from old Peter, and, again a boy, he also laughed he knew not why. He had sipped from the wine-cup ofyouth. 

"It's all settled, Guv'nor!" cried Clodd. "Tommy and I have fixed thingsup. We'll start with the New Year. "

"You've got the money?"

"I'm reckoning on it. I don't see very well how I can miss it. "

"Sufficient?"

"Just about. You get to work. "

"I've saved a little, " began Peter. "It ought to have been more, butsomehow it isn't. "

"Perhaps we shall want it, " Clodd replied; "perhaps we shan't. You aresupplying the brains. "

The three for a few moments remained silent. 

"I think, Tommy, " said Peter, "I think a bottle of the old Madeira--"

"Not to-night, " said Clodd; "next time. "

"To drink success, " urged Peter. 

"One man's success generally means some other poor devil's misfortune, "answered Clodd. 

"Can't be helped, of course, but don't want to think about it to-night. Must be getting back to my dormouse. Good night. "

Clodd shook hands and bustled out. 

"I thought as much, " mused Peter aloud. 

"What an odd mixture the man is! Kind--no one could have been kinder tothe poor old fellow. Yet all the while--We are an odd mixture, Tommy, "said Peter Hope, "an odd mixture, we men and women. " Peter was aphilosopher. 

The white-whiskered old dormouse soon coughed himself to sleep for ever. 

"I shall want you and the missis to come to the funeral, Gladman, " saidMr. Clodd, as he swung into the stationer's shop; "and bring Pincer withyou. I'm writing to him. "

"Don't see what good we can do, " demurred Gladman. 

"Well, you three are his only relatives; it's only decent you should bepresent, " urged Clodd. "Besides, there's the will to be read. You maycare to hear it. "

The dry old law stationer opened wide his watery eyes. 

"His will! Why, what had he got to leave? There was nothing but theannuity. "

"You turn up at the funeral, " Clodd told him, "and you'll learn all aboutit. Bonner's clerk will be there and will bring it with him. Everythingis going to be done _comme il faut_, as the French say. "

"I ought to have known of this, " began Mr. Gladman. 

"Glad to find you taking so much interest in the old chap, " said Clodd. "Pity he's dead and can't thank you. "

"I warn you, " shouted old Gladman, whose voice was rising to a scream, "he was a helpless imbecile, incapable of acting for himself! If anyundue influence--"

"See you on Friday, " broke in Clodd, who was busy. 

Friday's ceremony was not a sociable affair. Mrs. Gladman spokeoccasionally in a shrill whisper to Mr. Gladman, who replied with grunts. Both employed the remainder of their time in scowling at Clodd. Mr. Pincer, a stout, heavy gentleman connected with the House of Commons, maintained a ministerial reserve. The undertaker's foreman expressedhimself as thankful when it was over. He criticised it as the humpiestfuneral he had ever known; for a time he had serious thoughts of changinghis profession. 

The solicitor's clerk was waiting for the party on its return from KensalGreen. Clodd again offered hospitality. Mr. Pincer this time allowedhimself a glass of weak whisky-and-water, and sipped it with an air ofdoing so without prejudice. The clerk had one a little stronger, Mrs. Gladman, dispensing with consultation, declined shrilly for self andpartner. Clodd, explaining that he always followed legal precedent, mixed himself one also and drank "To our next happy meeting. " Then theclerk read. 

It was a short and simple will, dated the previous August. It appearedthat the old gentleman, unknown to his relatives, had died possessed ofshares in a silver mine, once despaired of, now prospering. Taking themat present value, they would produce a sum well over two thousand pounds. The old gentleman had bequeathed five hundred pounds to his brother-in-law, Mr. Gladman; five hundred pounds to his only other living relative, his first cousin, Mr. Pincer; the residue to his friend, William Clodd, as a return for the many kindnesses that gentleman had shown him. 

Mr. Gladman rose, more amused than angry. 

"And you think you are going to pocket that one thousand to twelvehundred pounds. You really do?" he asked Mr. Clodd, who, with legsstretched out before him, sat with his hands deep in his trouserspockets. 

"That's the idea, " admitted Mr. Clodd. 

Mr. Gladman laughed, but without much lightening the atmosphere. "Uponmy word, Clodd, you amuse me--you quite amuse me, " repeated Mr. Gladman. 

"You always had a sense of humour, " commented Mr. Clodd. 

"You villain! You double-dyed villain!" screamed Mr. Gladman, suddenlychanging his tone. "You think the law is going to allow you to swindlehonest men! You think we are going to sit still for you to rob us! Thatwill--" Mr. Gladman pointed a lank forefinger dramatically towards thetable. 

"You mean to dispute it?" inquired Mr. Clodd. 

For a moment Mr. Gladman stood aghast at the other's coolness, but soonfound his voice again. 

"Dispute it!" he shrieked. "Do you dispute that you influencedhim?--dictated it to him word for word, made the poor old helpless idiotsign it, he utterly incapable of even understanding--"

"Don't chatter so much, " interrupted Mr. Clodd. "It's not a prettyvoice, yours. What I asked you was, do you intend to dispute it?"

"If you will kindly excuse us, " struck in Mrs. Gladman, addressing Mr. Clodd with an air of much politeness, "we shall just have time, if we gonow, to catch our solicitor before he leaves his office. "

Mr. Gladman took up his hat from underneath his chair. 

"One moment, " suggested Mr. Clodd. "I did influence him to make thatwill. If you don't like it, there's an end of it. "

"Of course, " commenced Mr. Gladman in a mollified tone. 

"Sit down, " suggested Mr. Clodd. "Let's try another one. " Mr. Cloddturned to the clerk. "The previous one, Mr. Wright, if you please; theone dated June the 10th. "

An equally short and simple document, it bequeathed three hundred poundsto Mr. William Clodd in acknowledgment of kindnesses received, theresidue to the Royal Zoological Society of London, the deceased havingbeen always interested in and fond of animals. The relatives, "Who havenever shown me the slightest affection or given themselves the slightesttrouble concerning me, and who have already received considerable sumsout of my income, " being by name excluded. 

"I may mention, " observed Mr. Clodd, no one else appearing inclined tobreak the silence, "that in suggesting the Royal Zoological Society to mypoor old friend as a fitting object for his benevolence, I had in mind avery similar case that occurred five years ago. A bequest to them wasdisputed on the grounds that the testator was of unsound mind. They hadto take their case to the House of Lords before they finally won it. "

"Anyhow, " remarked Mr. Gladman, licking his lips, which were dry, "youwon't get anything, Mr. Clodd--no, not even your three-hundred pounds, clever as you think yourself. My brother-in-law's money will go to thelawyers. "

Then Mr. Pincer rose and spoke slowly and clearly. "If there must be alunatic connected with our family, which I don't see why there should be, it seems to me to be you, Nathaniel Gladman. "

Mr. Gladman stared back with open mouth. Mr. Pincer went onimpressively. 

"As for my poor old cousin Joe, he had his eccentricities, but that wasall. I for one am prepared to swear that he was of sound mind in Augustlast and quite capable of making his own will. It seems to me that theother thing, dated in June, is just waste paper. "

Mr. Pincer having delivered himself, sat down again. Mr. Gladman showedsigns of returning language. 

"Oh! what's the use of quarrelling?" chirped in cheery Mrs. Gladman. "It's five hundred pounds we never expected. Live and let live is what Ialways say. "

"It's the damned artfulness of the thing, " said Mr. Gladman, still verywhite about the gills. 

"Oh, you have a little something to thaw your face, " suggested his wife. 

Mr. And Mrs. Gladman, on the strength of the five hundred pounds, wenthome in a cab. Mr. Pincer stayed behind and made a night of it with Mr. Clodd and Bonner's clerk, at Clodd's expense. 

The residue worked out at eleven hundred and sixty-nine pounds and a fewshillings. The capital of the new company, "established for the purposeof carrying on the business of newspaper publishers and distributors, printers, advertising agents, and any other trade and enterpriseaffiliated to the same, " was one thousand pounds in one pound shares, fully paid up; of which William Clodd, Esquire, was registered proprietorof four hundred and sixty-three; Peter Hope, M. A. , of 16, Gough Square, of also four hundred and sixty-three; Miss Jane Hope, adopted daughter ofsaid Peter Hope (her real name nobody, herself included, ever havingknown), and generally called Tommy, of three, paid for by herself after abattle royal with William Clodd; Mrs. Postwhistle, of Rolls Court, often, presented by the promoter; Mr. Pincer, of the House of Commons, alsoof ten (still owing for); Dr. Smith (ne Schmidt) of fifty; James DouglasAlexander Calder McTear (otherwise the "Wee Laddie"), residing then inMrs. Postwhistle's first floor front, of one, paid for by poem publishedin the first number: "The Song of the Pen. "

Choosing a title for the paper cost much thought. Driven to despair, they called it _Good Humour_. 

STORY THE THIRD--Grindley Junior drops into the Position of Publisher

Few are the ways of the West Central district that have changed lesswithin the last half-century than Nevill's Court, leading from Great NewStreet into Fetter Lane. Its north side still consists of the samequaint row of small low shops that stood there--doing perhaps a littlebrisker business--when George the Fourth was King; its southern side ofthe same three substantial houses each behind a strip of garden, pleasantby contrast with surrounding grimness, built long ago--some say beforeQueen Anne was dead. 

Out of the largest of these, passing through the garden, then well caredfor, came one sunny Sunday morning, some fifteen years before thecommencement proper of this story, one Solomon Appleyard, pushing infront of him a perambulator. At the brick wall surmounted by woodenrailings that divides the garden from the court, Solomon paused, hearingbehind him the voice of Mrs. Appleyard speaking from the doorstep. 

"If I don't see you again until dinner-time, I'll try and get on withoutyou, understand. Don't think of nothing but your pipe and forget thechild. And be careful of the crossings. "

Mrs. Appleyard retired into the darkness. Solomon, steering theperambulator carefully, emerged from Nevill's Court without accident. Thequiet streets drew Solomon westward. A vacant seat beneath the shadeoverlooking the Long Water in Kensington Gardens invited to rest. 

"Piper?" suggested a small boy to Solomon. "_Sunday Times_, _'Server_?"

"My boy, " said Mr. Appleyard, speaking slowly, "when you've been mewed upwith newspapers eighteen hours a day for six days a week, you can dowithout 'em for a morning. Take 'em away. I want to forget the smell of'em. "

Solomon, having assured himself that the party in the perambulator wasstill breathing, crossed his legs and lit his pipe. 

"Hezekiah!"

The exclamation had been wrung from Solomon Appleyard by the approach ofa stout, short man clad in a remarkably ill-fitting broad-cloth suit. 

"What, Sol, my boy?"

"It looked like you, " said Solomon. "And then I said to myself: 'No;surely it can't be Hezekiah; he'll be at chapel. '"

"You run about, " said Hezekiah, addressing a youth of some four summershe had been leading by the hand. "Don't you go out of my sight; andwhatever you do, don't you do injury to those new clothes of yours, oryou'll wish you'd never been put into them. The truth is, " continuedHezekiah to his friend, his sole surviving son and heir being out ofearshot, "the morning tempted me. 'Tain't often I get a bit of freshair. "

"Doing well?"

"The business, " replied Hezekiah, "is going up by leaps and bounds--leapsand bounds. But, of course, all that means harder work for me. It'sfrom six in the morning till twelve o'clock at night. "

"There's nothing I know of, " returned Solomon, who was something of apessimist, "that's given away free gratis for nothing except misfortune. "

"Keeping yourself up to the mark ain't too easy, " continued Hezekiah;"and when it comes to other folks! play's all they think of. Talkreligion to them--why, they laugh at you! What the world's coming to, Idon't know. How's the printing business doing?"

"The printing business, " responded the other, removing his pipe andspeaking somewhat sadly, "the printing business looks like being a bigthing. Capital, of course, is what hampers me--or, rather, the want ofit. But Janet, she's careful; she don't waste much, Janet don't. "

"Now, with Anne, " replied Hezekiah, "it's all the other way--pleasure, gaiety, a day at Rosherville or the Crystal Palace--anything to wastemoney. "

"Ah! she was always fond of her bit of fun, " remembered Solomon. 

"Fun!" retorted Hezekiah. "I like a bit of fun myself. But not ifyou've got to pay for it. Where's the fun in that?"

"What I ask myself sometimes, " said Solomon, looking straight in front ofhim, "is what do we do it for?"

"What do we do what for?"

"Work like blessed slaves, depriving ourselves of all enjoyments. What'sthe sense of it? What--"

A voice from the perambulator beside him broke the thread of SolomonAppleyard's discourse. The sole surviving son of Hezekiah Grindley, seeking distraction and finding none, had crept back unperceived. Aperambulator! A thing his experience told him out of which excitement insome form or another could generally be obtained. You worried it andtook your chance. Either it howled, in which case you had to run foryour life, followed--and, unfortunately, overtaken nine times out often--by a whirlwind of vengeance; or it gurgled: in which case theheavens smiled and halos descended on your head. In either event youescaped the deadly ennui that is the result of continuous virtue. MasterGrindley, his star having pointed out to him a peacock's feather lying onthe ground, had, with one eye upon his unobservant parent, removed thecomplicated coverings sheltering Miss Helvetia Appleyard from the world, and anticipating by a quarter of a century the prime enjoyment of Britishyouth, had set to work to tickle that lady on the nose. Miss HelvetiaAppleyard awakened, did precisely what the tickled British maiden of to-day may be relied upon to do under corresponding circumstances: she firstof all took swift and comprehensive survey of the male thing behind thefeather. Had he been displeasing in her eyes, she would, one may relyupon it, have anteceded the behaviour in similar case of her descendantof to-day--that is to say, have expressed resentment in no uncertainterms. Master Nathaniel Grindley proving, however, to her taste, thatwhich might have been considered impertinence became accepted as a fitand proper form of introduction. Miss Appleyard smiled graciously--nay, further, intimated desire for more. 

"That your only one?" asked the paternal Grindley. 

"She's the only one, " replied Solomon, speaking in tones lesspessimistic. 

Miss Appleyard had with the help of Grindley junior wriggled herself intoa sitting posture. Grindley junior continued his attentions, the ladyindicating by signs the various points at which she was most susceptible. 

"Pretty picture they make together, eh?" suggested Hezekiah in a whisperto his friend. 

"Never saw her take to anyone like that before, " returned Solomon, likewise in a whisper. 

A neighbouring church clock chimed twelve. Solomon Appleyard, knockingthe ashes from his pipe, arose. 

"Don't know any reason myself why we shouldn't see a little more of oneanother than we do, " suggested Grindley senior, shaking hands. 

"Give us a look-up one Sunday afternoon, " suggested Solomon. "Bring theyoungster with you. "

Solomon Appleyard and Hezekiah Grindley had started life within a fewmonths of one another some five-and-thirty years before. Likewise withina few hundred yards of one another, Solomon at his father's booksellingand printing establishment on the east side of the High Street of a smallYorkshire town; Hezekiah at his father's grocery shop upon the west side, opposite. Both had married farmers' daughters. Solomon's natural benttowards gaiety Fate had corrected by directing his affections to apartner instinct with Yorkshire shrewdness; and with shrewdness go otherqualities that make for success rather than for happiness. Hezekiah, hadcircumstances been equal, might have been his friend's rival for Janet'scapable and saving hand, had not sweet-tempered, laughing AnnieGlossop--directed by Providence to her moral welfare, one mustpresume--fallen in love with him. Between Jane's virtues and Annie'sthree hundred golden sovereigns Hezekiah had not hesitated a moment. Golden sovereigns were solid facts; wifely virtues, by a serious-mindedand strong-willed husband, could be instilled--at all events, light-heartedness suppressed. The two men, Hezekiah urged by his ownambition, Solomon by his wife's, had arrived in London within a year ofone another: Hezekiah to open a grocer's shop in Kensington, which thosewho should have known assured him was a hopeless neighbourhood. ButHezekiah had the instinct of the money-maker. Solomon, after lookingabout him, had fixed upon the roomy, substantial house in Nevill's Courtas a promising foundation for a printer's business. 

That was ten years ago. The two friends, scorning delights, livinglaborious days, had seen but little of one another. Light-hearted Anniehad borne to her dour partner two children who had died. NathanielGeorge, with the luck supposed to wait on number three, had lived on, and, inheriting fortunately the temperament of his mother, had broughtsunshine into the gloomy rooms above the shop in High Street, Kensington. Mrs. Grindley, grown weak and fretful, had rested from her labours. 

Mrs. Appleyard's guardian angel, prudent like his protege, had waitedtill Solomon's business was well established before despatching the storkto Nevill's Court, with a little girl. Later had sent a boy, who, notfinding the close air of St. Dunstan to his liking, had found his wayback again; thus passing out of this story and all others. And thereremained to carry on the legend of the Grindleys and the Appleyards onlyNathaniel George, now aged five, and Janet Helvetia, quite a beginner, who took lift seriously. 

There are no such things as facts. Narrow-minded folk--surveyors, auctioneers, and such like--would have insisted that the garden betweenthe old Georgian house and Nevill's Court was a strip of land one hundredand eighteen feet by ninety-two, containing a laburnum tree, six laurelbushes, and a dwarf deodora. To Nathaniel George and Janet Helvetia itwas the land of Thule, "the furthest boundaries of which no man hasreached. " On rainy Sunday afternoons they played in the great, gloomypressroom, where silent ogres, standing motionless, stretched out ironarms to seize them as they ran. Then just when Nathaniel George waseight, and Janet Helvetia four and a half, Hezekiah launched thecelebrated "Grindley's Sauce. " It added a relish to chops and steaks, transformed cold mutton into a luxury, and swelled the head of HezekiahGrindley--which was big enough in all conscience as it was--andshrivelled up his little hard heart. The Grindleys and the Appleyardsvisited no more. As a sensible fellow ought to have seen for himself, sothought Hezekiah, the Sauce had altered all things. The possibility of amarriage between their children, things having remained equal, might havebeen a pretty fancy; but the son of the great Grindley, whose name inthree-foot letters faced the world from every hoarding, would have tolook higher than a printer's daughter. Solomon, a sudden and vehementconvert to the principles of mediaeval feudalism, would rather see hisonly child, granddaughter of the author of _The History of Kettlewell_and other works, dead and buried than married to a grocer's son, eventhough he might inherit a fortune made out of poisoning the public with amixture of mustard and sour beer. It was many years before NathanielGeorge and Janet Helvetia met one another again, and when they did theyhad forgotten one another. 

* * * * *

Hezekiah S. Grindley, a short, stout, and pompous gentleman, sat under apalm in the gorgeously furnished drawing-room of his big house at NottingHill. Mrs. Grindley, a thin, faded woman, the despair of her dressmaker, sat as near to the fire as its massive and imposing copper outworks wouldpermit, and shivered. Grindley junior, a fair-haired, well-shaped youth, with eyes that the other sex found attractive, leant with his hands inhis pockets against a scrupulously robed statue of Diana, and appeareduncomfortable. 

"I'm making the money--making it hand over fist. All you'll have to dowill be to spend it, " Grindley senior was explaining to his son and heir. 

"I'll do that all right, dad. "

"I'm not so sure of it, " was his father's opinion. "You've got to proveyourself worthy to spend it. Don't you think I shall be content to haveslaved all these years merely to provide a brainless young idiot with themeans of self-indulgence. I leave my money to somebody worthy of me. Understand, sir?--somebody worthy of me. "

Mrs. Grindley commenced a sentence; Mr. Grindley turned his small eyesupon her. The sentence remained unfinished. 

"You were about to say something, " her husband reminded her. 

Mrs. Grindley said it was nothing. 

"If it is anything worth hearing--if it is anything that will assist thediscussion, let's have it. " Mr. Grindley waited. "If not, if youyourself do not consider it worth finishing, why have begun it?"

Mr. Grindley returned to his son and heir. "You haven't done too well atschool--in fact, your school career has disappointed me. "

"I know I'm not clever, " Grindley junior offered as an excuse. 

"Why not? Why aren't you clever?"

His son and heir was unable to explain. 

"You are my son--why aren't you clever? It's laziness, sir; sheerlaziness!"

"I'll try and do better at Oxford, sir--honour bright I will!"

"You had better, " advised him his father; "because I warn you, your wholefuture depends upon it. You know me. You've got to be a credit to me, to be worthy of the name of Grindley--or the name, my boy, is all you'llhave. "

Old Grindley meant it, and his son knew that he meant it. The oldPuritan principles and instincts were strong in the old gentleman--formed, perhaps, the better part of him. Idleness was an abomination to him;devotion to pleasure, other than the pleasure of money-making, a grievoussin in his eyes. Grindley junior fully intended to do well at Oxford, and might have succeeded. In accusing himself of lack of cleverness, hedid himself an injustice. He had brains, he had energy, he hadcharacter. Our virtues can be our stumbling-blocks as well as our vices. Young Grindley had one admirable virtue that needs, above all others, careful controlling: he was amiability itself. Before the charm andsweetness of it, Oxford snobbishness went down. The Sauce, against theearnest counsel of its own advertisement, was forgotten; the picklespassed by. To escape the natural result of his popularity would haveneeded a stronger will than young Grindley possessed. For a time thetrue state of affairs was hidden from the eye of Grindley senior. To"slack" it this term, with the full determination of "swotting" it thenext, is always easy; the difficulty beginning only with the new term. Possibly with luck young Grindley might have retrieved his position andcovered up the traces of his folly, but for an unfortunate accident. Returning to college with some other choice spirits at two o'clock in themorning, it occurred to young Grindley that trouble might be saved allround by cutting out a pane of glass with a diamond ring and entering hisrooms, which were on the ground-floor, by the window. That, in mistakefor his own, he should have selected the bedroom of the College Rectorwas a misfortune that might have occurred to anyone who had commenced theevening on champagne and finished it on whisky. Young Grindley, havingbeen warned already twice before, was "sent down. " And then, of course, the whole history of the three wasted years came out. Old Grindley inhis study chair having talked for half an hour at the top of his voice, chose, partly by reason of physical necessity, partly by reason ofdormant dramatic instinct, to speak quietly and slowly. 

"I'll give you one chance more, my boy, and one only. I've tried you asa gentleman--perhaps that was my mistake. Now I'll try you as a grocer. "

"As a what?"

"As a grocer, sir--g-r-o-c-e-r--grocer, a man who stands behind a counterin a white apron and his shirt-sleeves; who sells tea and sugar andcandied peel and such-like things to customers--old ladies, little girls;who rises at six in the morning, takes down the shutters, sweeps out theshop, cleans the windows; who has half an hour for his dinner of cornedbeef and bread; who puts up the shutters at ten o'clock at night, tidiesup the shop, has his supper, and goes to bed, feeling his day has notbeen wasted. I meant to spare you. I was wrong. You shall go throughthe mill as I went through it. If at the end of two years you've donewell with your time, learned something--learned to be a man, at allevents--you can come to me and thank me. "

"I'm afraid, sir, " suggested Grindley junior, whose handsome face duringthe last few minutes had grown very white, "I might not make a verysatisfactory grocer. You see, sir, I've had no experience. "

"I am glad you have some sense, " returned his father drily. "You arequite right. Even a grocer's business requires learning. It will costme a little money; but it will be the last I shall ever spend upon you. For the first year you will have to be apprenticed, and I shall allow yousomething to live on. It shall be more than I had at your age--we'll saya pound a week. After that I shall expect you to keep yourself. "

Grindley senior rose. "You need not give me your answer till theevening. You are of age. I have no control over you unless you arewilling to agree. You can go my way, or you can go your own. "

Young Grindley, who had inherited a good deal of his father's grit, feltvery much inclined to go his own; but, hampered on the other hand by thesweetness of disposition he had inherited from his mother, was unable towithstand the argument of that lady's tears, so that evening accepted oldGrindley's terms, asking only as a favour that the scene of his probationmight be in some out-of-the-way neighbourhood where there would be littlechance of his being met by old friends. 

"I have thought of all that, " answered his father. "My object isn't tohumiliate you more than is necessary for your good. The shop I havealready selected, on the assumption that you would submit, is as quietand out-of-the-way as you could wish. It is in a turning off FetterLane, where you'll see few other people than printers and caretakers. You'll lodge with a woman, a Mrs. Postwhistle, who seems a very sensibleperson. She'll board you and lodge you, and every Saturday you'llreceive a post-office order for six shillings, out of which you'll findyourself in clothes. You can take with you sufficient to last you forthe first six months, but no more. At the end of the year you can changeif you like and go to another shop, or make your own arrangements withMrs. Postwhistle. If all is settled, you go there to-morrow. You go outof this house to-morrow in any event. "

Mrs. Postwhistle was a large, placid lady of philosophic temperament. Hitherto the little grocer's shop in Rolls Court, Fetter Lane, had beeneasy of management by her own unaided efforts; but the neighbourhood wasrapidly changing. Other grocers' shops were disappearing one by one, making way for huge blocks of buildings, where hundreds of iron presses, singing day and night, spread to the earth the song of the Mighty Pen. There were hours when the little shop could hardly accommodate its crowdof customers. Mrs. Postwhistle, of a bulk not to be moved quickly, had, after mature consideration, conquering a natural disinclination tochange, decided to seek assistance. 

Young Grindley, alighting from a four-wheeled cab in Fetter Lane, marchedup the court, followed by a weak-kneed wastrel staggering under theweight of a small box. In the doorway of the little shop, young Grindleypaused and raised his hat. 

"Mrs. Postwhistle?"

The lady, from her chair behind the counter, rose slowly. 

"I am Mr. Nathaniel Grindley, the new assistant. "

The weak-kneed wastrel let fall the box with a thud upon the floor. Mrs. Postwhistle looked her new assistant up and down. 

"Oh!" said Mrs. Postwhistle. "Well, I shouldn't 'ave felt instinctivelyit must be you, not if I'd 'ad to pick you out of a crowd. But if youtell me so, why, I suppose you are. Come in. "

The weak-kneed wastrel, receiving to his astonishment a shilling, departed. 

Grindley senior had selected wisely. Mrs. Postwhistle's theory was thatalthough very few people in this world understood their own business, they understood it better than anyone else could understand it for them. If handsome, well-educated young gentlemen, who gave shillings towastrels, felt they wanted to become smart and capable grocers'assistants, that was their affair. Her business was to teach them theirwork, and, for her own sake, to see that they did it. A month went by. Mrs. Postwhistle found her new assistant hard-working, willing, somewhatclumsy, but with a smile and a laugh that transformed mistakes, for whichanother would have been soundly rated, into welcome variations of theday's monotony. 

"If you were the sort of woman that cared to make your fortune, " said oneWilliam Clodd, an old friend of Mrs. Postwhistle's, young Grindley havingdescended into the cellar to grind coffee, "I'd tell you what to do. Takea bun-shop somewhere in the neighbourhood of a girls' school, and putthat assistant of yours in the window. You'd do a roaring business. "

"There's a mystery about 'im, " said Mrs. Postwhistle. 

"Know what it is?"

"If I knew what it was, I shouldn't be calling it a mystery, " repliedMrs. Postwhistle, who was a stylist in her way. 

"How did you get him? Win him in a raffle?"

"Jones, the agent, sent 'im to me all in a 'urry. An assistant is what Ireally wanted, not an apprentice; but the premium was good, and thereferences everything one could desire. "

"Grindley, Grindley, " murmured Clodd. "Any relation to the Sauce, Iwonder?"

"A bit more wholesome, I should say, from the look of him, " thought Mrs. Postwhistle. 

The question of a post office to meet its growing need had long beenunder discussion by the neighbourhood. Mrs. Postwhistle was approachedupon the subject. Grindley junior, eager for anything that might bringvariety into his new, cramped existence, undertook to qualify himself. 

Within two months the arrangements were complete. Grindley juniordivided his time between dispensing groceries and despatching telegramsand letters, and was grateful for the change. 

Grindley junior's mind was fixed upon the fashioning of a cornucopia toreceive a quarter of a pound of moist. The customer, an extremely younglady, was seeking to hasten his operations by tapping incessantly with apenny on the counter. It did not hurry him; it only worried him. Grindley junior had not acquired facility in the fashioning ofcornucopias--the vertex would invariably become unrolled at the lastmoment, allowing the contents to dribble out on to the floor or counter. Grindley junior was sweet-tempered as a rule, but when engaged upon thefashioning of a cornucopia, was irritable. 

"Hurry up, old man!" urged the extremely young lady. "I've got anotherappointment in less than half an hour. "

"Oh, damn the thing!" said Grindley junior, as the paper for the fourthtime reverted to its original shape. 

An older lady, standing behind the extremely young lady and holding atelegram-form in her hand, looked indignant. 

"Temper, temper, " remarked the extremely young lady in reproving tone. 

The fifth time was more successful. The extremely young lady went out, commenting upon the waste of time always resulting when boys wereemployed to do the work of men. The older lady, a haughty person, handedacross her telegram with the request that it should be sent off at once. 

Grindley junior took his pencil from his pocket and commenced to count. 

"_Digniori_, not _digniorus_, " commented Grindley junior, correcting theword, "_datur digniori_, dative singular. " Grindley junior, stillirritable from the struggle with the cornucopia, spoke sharply. 

The haughty lady withdrew her eyes from a spot some ten miles beyond theback of the shop, where hitherto they had been resting, and fixed themfor the first time upon Grindley junior. 

"Thank you, " said the haughty lady. 

Grindley junior looked up and immediately, to his annoyance, felt that hewas blushing. Grindley junior blushed easily--it annoyed him very much. 

The haughty young lady also blushed. She did not often blush; when shedid, she felt angry with herself. 

"A shilling and a penny, " demanded Grindley junior. 

The haughty young lady counted out the money and departed. Grindleyjunior, peeping from behind a tin of Abernethy biscuits, noticed that asshe passed the window she turned and looked back. She was a very pretty, haughty lady. Grindley junior rather admired dark, level brows andfinely cut, tremulous lips, especially when combined with a mass of soft, brown hair, and a rich olive complexion that flushed and paled as onelooked at it. 

"Might send that telegram off if you've nothing else to do, and there'sno particular reason for keeping it back, " suggested Mrs. Postwhistle. 

"It's only just been handed in, " explained Grindley junior, somewhathurt. 

"You've been looking at it for the last five minutes by the clock, " saidMrs. Postwhistle. 

Grindley junior sat down to the machine. The name and address of thesender was Helvetia Appleyard, Nevill's Court. 

Three days passed--singularly empty days they appeared to Grindleyjunior. On the fourth, Helvetia Appleyard had occasion to despatchanother telegram--this time entirely in English. 

"One-and-fourpence, " sighed Grindley junior. 

Miss Appleyard drew forth her purse. The shop was empty. 

"How did you come to know Latin?" inquired Miss Appleyard in quite acasual tone. 

"I picked up a little at school. It was a phrase I happened toremember, " confessed Grindley junior, wondering why he should be feelingashamed of himself. 

"I am always sorry, " said Miss Appleyard, "when I see anyone content withthe lower life whose talents might, perhaps, fit him for the higher. "Something about the tone and manner of Miss Appleyard reminded Grindleyjunior of his former Rector. Each seemed to have arrived by differentroads at the same philosophical aloofness from the world, tempered bychastened interest in human phenomena. "Would you like to try to raiseyourself--to improve yourself--to educate yourself?"

An unseen little rogue, who was enjoying himself immensely, whispered toGrindley junior to say nothing but "Yes, " he should. 

"Will you let me help you?" asked Miss Appleyard. And the simple andheartfelt gratitude with which Grindley junior closed upon the offerproved to Miss Appleyard how true it is that to do good to others is thehighest joy. 

Miss Appleyard had come prepared for possible acceptance. "You hadbetter begin with this, " thought Miss Appleyard. "I have marked thepassages that you should learn by heart. Make a note of anything you donot understand, and I will explain it to you when--when next I happen tobe passing. "

Grindley junior took the book--_Bell's Introduction to the Study of theClassics_, _for Use of Beginners_--and held it between both hands. Itsprice was ninepence, but Grindley junior appeared to regard it as avolume of great value. 

"It will be hard work at first, " Miss Appleyard warned him; "but you mustpersevere. I have taken an interest in you; you must try not todisappoint me. "

And Miss Appleyard, feeling all the sensations of a Hypatia, departed, taking light with her and forgetting to pay for the telegram. MissAppleyard belonged to the class that young ladies who pride themselves onbeing tiresomely ignorant and foolish sneer at as "blue-stockings"; thatis to say, possessing brains, she had felt the necessity of using them. Solomon Appleyard, widower, a sensible old gentleman, prospering in theprinting business, and seeing no necessity for a woman regarding herselfas nothing but a doll, a somewhat uninteresting plaything the newnessonce worn off, thankfully encouraged her. Miss Appleyard had returnedfrom Girton wise in many things, but not in knowledge of the world, whichknowledge, too early acquired, does not always make for good in young manor woman. A serious little virgin, Miss Appleyard's ambition was to helpthe human race. What more useful work could have come to her hand thanthe raising of this poor but intelligent young grocer's assistant untothe knowledge and the love of higher things. That Grindley juniorhappened to be an exceedingly good-looking and charming young grocer'sassistant had nothing to do with the matter, so Miss Appleyard would haveinformed you. In her own reasoning she was convinced that her interestin him would have been the same had he been the least attractive of hissex. That there could be danger in such relationship never occurred toher. 

Miss Appleyard, a convinced Radical, could not conceive the possibilityof a grocer's assistant regarding the daughter of a well-to-do printer inany other light than that of a graciously condescending patron. Thatthere could be danger to herself! you would have been sorry you hadsuggested the idea. The expression of lofty scorn would have made youfeel yourself contemptible. 

Miss Appleyard's judgment of mankind was justified; no more promisingpupil could have been selected. It was really marvellous the progressmade by Grindley junior, under the tutelage of Helvetia Appleyard. Hisearnestness, his enthusiasm, it quite touched the heart of HelvetiaAppleyard. There were many points, it is true, that puzzled Grindleyjunior. Each time the list of them grew longer. But when HelvetiaAppleyard explained them, all became clear. She marvelled herself at herown wisdom, that in a moment made darkness luminous to this young man;his rapt attention while she talked, it was most encouraging. The boymust surely be a genius. To think that but for her intuition he mighthave remained wasted in a grocer's shop! To rescue such a gem fromoblivion, to polish it, was surely the duty of a conscientious Hypatia. Two visits--three visits a week to the little shop in Rolls Court werequite inadequate, so many passages there were requiring elucidation. London in early morning became their classroom: the great, wide, empty, silent streets; the mist-curtained parks, the silence broken only by theblackbirds' amorous whistle, the thrushes' invitation to delight; the oldgardens, hidden behind narrow ways. Nathaniel George and Janet Helvetiawould rest upon a seat, no living creature within sight, save perhaps apassing policeman or some dissipated cat. Janet Helvetia would expound. Nathaniel George, his fine eyes fixed on hers, seemed never to tire ofdrinking in her wisdom. 

There were times when Janet Helvetia, to reassure herself as to themaidenly correctness of her behaviour, had to recall quite forcibly thefact that she was the daughter of Solomon Appleyard, owner of the bigprinting establishment; and he a simple grocer. One day, raised a littlein the social scale, thanks to her, Nathaniel George would marry someonein his own rank of life. Reflecting upon the future of Nathaniel George, Janet Helvetia could not escape a shade of sadness. It was difficult toimagine precisely the wife she would have chosen for Nathaniel George. She hoped he would do nothing foolish. Rising young men so often marrywives that hamper rather than help them. 

One Sunday morning in late autumn, they walked and talked in the shadygarden of Lincoln's Inn. Greek they thought it was they had beentalking; as a matter of fact, a much older language. A young gardenerwas watering flowers, and as they passed him he grinned. It was not anoffensive grin, rather a sympathetic grin; but Miss Appleyard didn't likebeing grinned at. What was there to grin at? Her personal appearance?some _gaucherie_ in her dress? Impossible. No lady in all St. Dunstanwas ever more precise. She glanced at her companion: a clean-looking, well-groomed, well-dressed youth. Suddenly it occurred to Miss Appleyardthat she and Grindley junior were holding each other's hand. MissAppleyard was justly indignant. 

"How dare you!" said Miss Appleyard. "I am exceedingly angry with you. How dare you!"

The olive skin was scarlet. There were tears in the hazel eyes. 

"Leave me this minute!" commanded Miss Appleyard. 

Instead of which, Grindley junior seized both her hands. 

"I love you! I adore you! I worship you!" poured forth young Grindley, forgetful of all Miss Appleyard had ever told him concerning the folly oftautology. 

"You had no right, " said Miss Appleyard. 

"I couldn't help it, " pleaded young Grindley. "And that isn't theworst. "

Miss Appleyard paled visibly. For a grocer's assistant to dare to fallin love with her, especially after all the trouble she had taken withhim! What could be worse?

"I'm not a grocer, " continued young Grindley, deeply conscious of crime. "I mean, not a real grocer. "

And Grindley junior then and there made a clean breast of the whole sad, terrible tale of shameless deceit, practised by the greatest villain theworld had ever produced, upon the noblest and most beautiful maiden thatever turned grim London town into a fairy city of enchanted ways. 

Not at first could Miss Appleyard entirely grasp it; not till hourslater, when she sat alone in her own room, where, fortunately forhimself, Grindley junior was not, did the whole force and meaning of thething come home to her. It was a large room, taking up half of the topstory of the big Georgian house in Nevill's Court; but even as it was, Miss Appleyard felt cramped. 

"For a year--for nearly a whole year, " said Miss Appleyard, addressingthe bust of William Shakespeare, "have I been slaving my life out, teaching him elementary Latin and the first five books of Euclid!"

As it has been remarked, it was fortunate for Grindley junior he was outof reach. The bust of William Shakespeare maintained its irritatingaspect of benign philosophy. 

"I suppose I should, " mused Miss Appleyard, "if he had told me atfirst--as he ought to have told me--of course I should naturally have hadnothing more to do with him. I suppose, " mused Miss Appleyard, "a man inlove, if he is really in love, doesn't quite know what he's doing. Isuppose one ought to make allowances. But, oh! when I think of it--"

And then Grindley junior's guardian angel must surely have slipped intothe room, for Miss Appleyard, irritated beyond endurance at thephilosophical indifference of the bust of William Shakespeare, turnedaway from it, and as she did so, caught sight of herself in the looking-glass. Miss Appleyard approached the glass a little nearer. A woman'shair is never quite as it should be. Miss Appleyard, standing before theglass, began, she knew not why, to find reasons excusing Grindley junior. After all, was not forgiveness an excellent thing in woman? None of usare quite perfect. The guardian angel of Grindley junior seized theopportunity. 

That evening Solomon Appleyard sat upright in his chair, feelingconfused. So far as he could understand it, a certain young man, agrocer's assistant, but not a grocer's assistant--but that, of course, was not his fault, his father being an old brute--had behaved mostabominably; but not, on reflection, as badly as he might have done, andhad acted on the whole very honourably, taking into consideration thefact that one supposed he could hardly help it. Helvetia was, of course, very indignant with him, but on the other hand, did not quite see whatelse she could have done, she being not at all sure whether she reallycared for him or whether she didn't; that everything had been quiteproper and would not have happened if she had known it; that everythingwas her fault, except most things, which weren't; but that of the two sheblamed herself entirely, seeing that she could not have guessed anythingof the kind. And did he, Solomon Appleyard, think that she ought to bevery angry and never marry anybody else, or was she justified inoverlooking it and engaging herself to the only man she felt she couldever love?

"You mustn't think, Dad, that I meant to deceive you. I should have toldyou at the beginning--you know I would--if it hadn't all happened sosuddenly. "

"Let me see, " said Solomon Appleyard, "did you tell me his name, ordidn't you?"

"Nathaniel, " said Miss Appleyard. "Didn't I mention it?"

"Don't happen to know his surname, do you, " inquired her father. 

"Grindley, " explained Miss Appleyard--"the son of Grindley, the Sauceman. "

Miss Appleyard experienced one of the surprises of her life. Neverbefore to her recollection had her father thwarted a single wish of herlife. A widower for the last twelve years, his chief delight had been tohumour her. His voice, as he passionately swore that never with hisconsent should his daughter marry the son of Hezekiah Grindley, soundedstrange to her. Pleadings, even tears, for the first time in her lifeproved fruitless. 

Here was a pretty kettle of fish! That Grindley junior should defy hisown parent, risk possibly the loss of his inheritance, had seemed to botha not improper proceeding. When Nathaniel George had said with fineenthusiasm: "Let him keep his money if he will; I'll make my own way;there isn't enough money in the world to pay for losing you!" JanetHelvetia, though she had expressed disapproval of such unfilial attitude, had in secret sympathised. But for her to disregard the wishes of herown doting father was not to be thought of. What was to be done?

Perhaps one Peter Hope, residing in Gough Square hard by, might helpyoung folks in sore dilemma with wise counsel. Peter Hope, editor andpart proprietor of _Good Humour_, one penny weekly, was much esteemed bySolomon Appleyard, printer and publisher of aforesaid paper. 

"A good fellow, old Hope, " Solomon would often impress upon his managingclerk. "Don't worry him more than you can help; things will improve. Wecan trust him. "

Peter Hope sat at his desk, facing Miss Appleyard. Grindley junior saton the cushioned seat beneath the middle window. _Good Humour's_ sub-editor stood before the fire, her hands behind her back. 

The case appeared to Peter Hope to be one of exceeding difficulty. 

"Of course, " explained Miss Appleyard, "I shall never marry without myfather's consent. "

Peter Hope thought the resolution most proper. 

"On the other hand, " continued Miss Appleyard, "nothing shall induce meto marry a man I do not love. " Miss Appleyard thought the probabilitieswere that she would end by becoming a female missionary. 

Peter Hope's experience had led him to the conclusion that young peoplesometimes changed their mind. 

The opinion of the House, clearly though silently expressed, was thatPeter Hope's experience, as regarded this particular case, counted fornothing. 

"I shall go straight to the Governor, " explained Grindley junior, "andtell him that I consider myself engaged for life to Miss Appleyard. Iknow what will happen--I know the sort of idea he has got into his head. He will disown me, and I shall go off to Africa. "

Peter Hope was unable to see how Grindley junior's disappearance into thewilds of Africa was going to assist the matter under discussion. 

Grindley junior's view was that the wilds of Africa would afford afitting background to the passing away of a blighted existence. 

Peter Hope had a suspicion that Grindley junior had for the moment partedcompany with that sweet reasonableness that otherwise, so Peter Hope feltsure, was Grindley junior's guiding star. 

"I mean it, sir, " reasserted Grindley junior. "I am--" Grindley juniorwas about to add "well educated"; but divining that education was a topicnot pleasing at the moment to the ears of Helvetia Appleyard, had tactenough to substitute "not a fool. I can earn my own living; and I shouldlike to get away. "

"It seems to me--" said the sub-editor. 

"Now, Tommy--I mean Jane, " warned her Peter Hope. He always called herJane in company, unless he was excited. "I know what you are going tosay. I won't have it. "

"I was only going to say--" urged the sub-editor in tone of one sufferinginjustice. 

"I quite know what you were going to say, " retorted Peter hotly. "I cansee it by your chin. You are going to take their part--and suggest theiracting undutifully towards their parents. "

"I wasn't, " returned the sub-editor. "I was only--"

"You were, " persisted Peter. "I ought not to have allowed you to bepresent. I might have known you would interfere. "

"--going to say we are in want of some help in the office. You know weare. And that if Mr. Grindley would be content with a small salary--"

"Small salary be hanged!" snarled Peter. 

"--there would be no need for his going to Africa. "

"And how would that help us?" demanded Peter. "Even if the boy wereso--so headstrong, so unfilial as to defy his father, who has worked forhim all these years, how would that remove the obstacle of Mr. Appleyard's refusal?"

"Why, don't you see--" explained the sub-editor. 

"No, I don't, " snapped Peter. 

"If, on his declaring to his father that nothing will ever induce him tomarry any other woman but Miss Appleyard, his father disowns him, as hethinks it likely--"

"A dead cert!" was Grindley junior's conviction. 

"Very well; he is no longer old Grindley's son, and what possibleobjection can Mr. Appleyard have to him then?"

Peter Hope arose and expounded at length and in suitable language thefolly and uselessness of the scheme. 

But what chance had ever the wisdom of Age against the enthusiasm ofYouth, reaching for its object. Poor Peter, expostulating, was sweptinto the conspiracy. Grindley junior the next morning stood before hisfather in the private office in High Holborn. 

"I am sorry, sir, " said Grindley junior, "if I have proved adisappointment to you. "

"Damn your sympathy!" said Grindley senior. "Keep it till you are askedfor it. "

"I hope we part friends, sir, " said Grindley junior, holding out hishand. 

"Why do you irate me?" asked Grindley senior. "I have thought of nothingbut you these five-and-twenty years. "

"I don't, sir, " answered Grindley junior. "I can't say I love you. Itdid not seem to me you--you wanted it. But I like you, sir, and Irespect you. And--and I'm sorry to have to hurt you, sir. "

"And you are determined to give up all your prospects, all the money, forthe sake of this--this girl?"

"It doesn't seem like giving up anything, sir, " replied Grindley junior, simply. 

"It isn't so much as I thought it was going to be, " said the old man, after a pause. "Perhaps it is for the best. I might have been moreobstinate if things had been going all right. The Lord has chastenedme. "

"Isn't the business doing well, Dad?" asked the young man, with sorrow inhis voice. 

"What's it got to do with you?" snapped his father. "You've cut yourselfadrift from it. You leave me now I am going down. "

Grindley junior, not knowing what to say, put his arms round the littleold man. 

And in this way Tommy's brilliant scheme fell through and came to naught. Instead, old Grindley visited once again the big house in Nevill's Court, and remained long closeted with old Solomon in the office on the secondfloor. It was late in the evening when Solomon opened the door andcalled upstairs to Janet Helvetia to come down. 

"I used to know you long ago, " said Hezekiah Grindley, rising. "You werequite a little girl then. "

Later, the troublesome Sauce disappeared entirely, cut out by newerflavours. Grindley junior studied the printing business. It almostseemed as if old Appleyard had been waiting but for this. Some sixmonths later they found him dead in his counting-house. Grindley juniorbecame the printer and publisher of _Good Humour_. 

STORY THE FOURTH--Miss Ramsbotham gives her Services

To regard Miss Ramsbotham as a marriageable quantity would have occurredto few men. Endowed by Nature with every feminine quality calculated toinspire liking, she had, on the other hand, been disinherited of everyattribute calculated to excite passion. An ugly woman has for some menan attraction; the proof is ever present to our eyes. Miss Ramsbothamwas plain but pleasant looking. Large, healthy in mind and body, capable, self-reliant, and cheerful, blessed with a happy dispositiontogether with a keen sense of humour, there was about her absolutelynothing for tenderness to lay hold of. An ideal wife, she was animpossible sweetheart. Every man was her friend. The suggestion thatany man could be her lover she herself would have greeted with a clear, ringing laugh. 

Not that she held love in despite; for such folly she was possessed offar too much sound sense. "To have somebody in love with you--somebodystrong and good, " so she would confess to her few close intimates, adreamy expression clouding for an instant her broad, sunny face, "why, itmust be just lovely!" For Miss Ramsbotham was prone to Americanphraseology, and had even been at some pains, during a six months'journey through the States (whither she had been commissioned by aconscientious trade journal seeking reliable information concerning thecondition of female textile workers) to acquire a slight but decidedAmerican accent. It was her one affectation, but assumed, as one mightfeel certain, for a practical and legitimate object. 

"You can have no conception, " she would explain, laughing, "what a help Ifind it. 'I'm 'Muriken' is the 'Civis Romanus sum' of the modern woman'sworld. It opens every door to us. If I ring the bell and say, 'Oh, ifyou please, I have come to interview Mr. So-and-So for such-and-such apaper, ' the footman looks through me at the opposite side of the street, and tells me to wait in the hall while he inquires if Mr. So-and-So willsee me or not. But if I say, 'That's my keerd, young man. You tell yourmaster Miss Ramsbotham is waiting for him in the showroom, and will takeit real kind if he'll just bustle himself, ' the poor fellow walksbackwards till he stumbles against the bottom stair, and my gentlemancomes down with profuse apologies for having kept me waiting threeminutes and a half. 

"'And to be in love with someone, " she would continue, "someone greatthat one could look up to and honour and worship--someone that would fillone's whole life, make it beautiful, make every day worth living, I thinkthat would be better still. To work merely for one's self, to thinkmerely for one's self, it is so much less interesting. "

Then, at some such point of the argument, Miss Ramsbotham would jump upfrom her chair and shake herself indignantly. 

"Why, what nonsense I'm talking, " she would tell herself, and herlisteners. "I make a very fair income, have a host of friends, and enjoyevery hour of my life. I should like to have been pretty or handsome, ofcourse; but no one can have all the good things of this world, and I havemy brains. At one time, perhaps, yes; but now--no, honestly I would notchange myself. "

Miss Ramsbotham was sorry that no man had ever fallen in love with her, but that she could understand. 

"It is quite clear to me. " So she had once unburdened herself to herbosom friend. "Man for the purposes of the race has been given two kindsof love, between which, according to his opportunities and temperament, he is free to choose: he can fall down upon his knees and adore physicalbeauty (for Nature ignores entirely our mental side), or he can takedelight in circling with his protecting arm the weak and helpless. Now, I make no appeal to either instinct. I possess neither the charm norbeauty to attract--"

"Beauty, " reminded her the bosom friend, consolingly, "dwells in thebeholder's eye. "

"My dear, " cheerfully replied Miss Ramsbotham, "it would have to be aneye of the range and capacity Sam Weller frankly owned up to notpossessing--a patent double-million magnifying, capable of seeing througha deal board and round the corner sort of eye--to detect any beauty inme. And I am much too big and sensible for any man not a fool ever tothink of wanting to take care of me. 

"I believe, " remembered Miss Ramsbotham, "if it does not sound like idleboasting, I might have had a husband, of a kind, if Fate had notcompelled me to save his life. I met him one year at Huyst, a small, quiet watering-place on the Dutch coast. He would walk always half astep behind me, regarding me out of the corner of his eye quiteapprovingly at times. He was a widower--a good little man, devoted tohis three charming children. They took an immense fancy to me, and Ireally think I could have got on with him. I am very adaptable, as youknow. But it was not to be. He got out of his depth one morning, andunfortunately there was no one within distance but myself who could swim. I knew what the result would be. You remember Labiche's comedy, _LesVoyage de Monsieur Perrichon_? Of course, every man hates having had hislife saved, after it is over; and you can imagine how he must hate havingit saved by a woman. But what was I to do? In either case he would belost to me, whether I let him drown or whether I rescued him. So, as itreally made no difference, I rescued him. He was very grateful, and leftthe next morning. 

"It is my destiny. No man has ever fallen in love with me, and no manever will. I used to worry myself about it when I was younger. As achild I hugged to my bosom for years an observation I had overheard anaunt of mine whisper to my mother one afternoon as they sat knitting andtalking, not thinking I was listening. 'You never can tell, ' murmured myaunt, keeping her eyes carefully fixed upon her needles; 'children changeso. I have known the plainest girls grow up into quite beautiful women. I should not worry about it if I were you--not yet awhile. ' My motherwas not at all a bad-looking woman, and my father was decidedly handsome;so there seemed no reason why I should not hope. I pictured myself theugly duckling of Andersen's fairy-tale, and every morning on waking Iwould run straight to my glass and try to persuade myself that thefeathers of the swan were beginning at last to show themselves. " MissRamsbotham laughed, a genuine laugh of amusement, for of self-pity not atrace was now remaining to her. 

"Later I plucked hope again, " continued Miss Ramsbotham her confession, "from the reading of a certain school of fiction more popular twentyyears ago than now. In these romances the heroine was never what youwould call beautiful, unless in common with the hero you happened topossess exceptional powers of observation. But she was better than that, she was good. I do not regard as time wasted the hours I spent studyingthis quaint literature. It helped me, I am sure, to form habits thathave since been of service to me. I made a point, when any young manvisitor happened to be staying with us, of rising exceptionally early inthe morning, so that I always appeared at the breakfast-table fresh, cheerful, and carefully dressed, with, when possible, a dew-besprinkledflower in my hair to prove that I had already been out in the garden. Theeffort, as far as the young man visitor was concerned, was always thrownaway; as a general rule, he came down late himself, and generally toodrowsy to notice anything much. But it was excellent practice for me. Iwake now at seven o'clock as a matter of course, whatever time I go tobed. I made my own dresses and most of our cakes, and took care to leteverybody know it. Though I say it who should not, I play and singrather well. I certainly was never a fool. I had no little brothers andsisters to whom to be exceptionally devoted, but I had my cousins aboutthe house as much as possible, and damaged their characters, if anything, by over-indulgence. My dear, it never caught even a curate! I am notone of those women to run down men; I think them delightful creatures, and in a general way I find them very intelligent. But where theirhearts are concerned it is the girl with the frizzy hair, who wants twopeople to help her over the stile, that is their idea of an angel. Noman could fall in love with me; he couldn't if he tried. That I canunderstand; but"--Miss Ramsbotham sunk her voice to a more confidentialtone--"what I cannot understand is that I have never fallen in love withany man, because I like them all. "

"You have given the explanation yourself, " suggested the bosom friend--oneSusan Fossett, the "Aunt Emma" of _The Ladies' Journal_, a nice woman, but talkative. "You are too sensible. "

Miss Ramsbotham shook her head, "I should just love to fall in love. WhenI think about it, I feel quite ashamed of myself for not having done so. "

Whether it was this idea, namely, that it was her duty, or whether it wasthat passion came to her, unsought, somewhat late in life, and thereforeall the stronger, she herself would perhaps have been unable to declare. Certain only it is that at over thirty years of age this clever, sensible, clear-seeing woman fell to sighing and blushing, starting andstammering at the sounding of a name, as though for all the world she hadbeen a love-sick girl in her teens. 

Susan Fossett, her bosom friend, brought the strange tidings to Bohemiaone foggy November afternoon, her opportunity being a tea-party given byPeter Hope to commemorate the birthday of his adopted daughter and sub-editor, Jane Helen, commonly called Tommy. The actual date of Tommy'sbirthday was known only to the gods; but out of the London mist towifeless, childless Peter she had come the evening of a certain Novemberthe eighteenth, and therefore by Peter and his friends November theeighteenth had been marked upon the calendar as a day on which theyshould rejoice together. 

"It is bound to leak out sooner or later, " Susan Fossett was convinced, "so I may as well tell you: that gaby Mary Ramsbotham has got herselfengaged. "

"Nonsense!" was Peter Hope's involuntary ejaculation. 

"Precisely what I mean to tell her the very next time I see her, " addedSusan. 

"Who to?" demanded Tommy. 

"You mean 'to whom. ' The preeposition governs the objective case, "corrected her James Douglas McTear, commonly called "The Wee Laddie, " whohimself wrote English better than he spoke it. 

"I meant 'to whom, '" explained Tommy. 

"Ye didna say it, " persisted the Wee Laddie. 

"I don't know to whom, " replied Miss Ramsbotham's bosom friend, sippingtea and breathing indignation. "To something idiotic and incongruousthat will make her life a misery to her. "

Somerville, the briefless, held that in the absence of all data suchconclusion was unjustifiable. 

"If it had been to anything sensible, " was Miss Fossett's opinion, "shewould not have kept me in the dark about it, to spring it upon me like abombshell. I've never had so much as a hint from her until I receivedthis absurd scrawl an hour ago. "

Miss Fossett produced from her bag a letter written in pencil. 

"There can be no harm in your hearing it, " was Miss Fossett's excuse; "itwill give you an idea of the state of the poor thing's mind. "

The tea-drinkers left their cups and gathered round her. "Dear Susan, "read Miss Fossett, "I shall not be able to be with you to-morrow. Pleaseget me out of it nicely. I can't remember at the moment what it is. You'll be surprised to hear that I'm _engaged_--to be married, I mean, Ican hardly _realise_ it. I hardly seem to know where I am. Have justmade up my mind to run down to Yorkshire and see grandmamma. I must do_something_. I must _talk_ to _somebody_ and--forgive me, dear--but you_are_ so sensible, and just now--well I don't _feel_ sensible. Will tellyou all about it when I see you--next week, perhaps. You must _try_ tolike him. He is _so_ handsome and _really_ clever--in his own way. Don'tscold me. I never thought it possible that _anyone_ could be so happy. It's quite a different sort of happiness to _any_ other sort ofhappiness. I don't know how to describe it. Please ask Burcot to let meoff the antequarian congress. I feel I should do it badly. I am sothankful he has _no_ relatives--in England. I should have been so_terribly_ nervous. Twelve hours ago I could not have _dreamt_ of it, and now I walk on tiptoe for fear of waking up. Did I leave mychinchilla at your rooms? Don't be angry with me. I should have toldyou if I had known. In haste. Yours, Mary. "

"It's dated from Marylebone Road, and yesterday afternoon she did leaveher chinchilla in my rooms, which makes me think it really must be fromMary Ramsbotham. Otherwise I should have my doubts, " added Miss Fossett, as she folded up the letter and replaced it in her bag. 

"Id is love!" was the explanation of Dr. William Smith, his round, redface illuminated with poetic ecstasy. "Love has gone to her--hasdransformed her once again into the leedle maid. "

"Love, " retorted Susan Fossett, "doesn't transform an intelligent, educated woman into a person who writes a letter all in jerks, underlinesevery other word, spells antiquarian with an 'e, ' and Burcott's name, whom she has known for the last eight years, with only one 't. ' Thewoman has gone stark, staring mad!"

"We must wait until we have seen him, " was Peter's judicious view. "Ishould be so glad to think that the dear lady was happy. "

"So should I, " added Miss Fossett drily. 

"One of the most sensible women I have ever met, " commented WilliamClodd. "Lucky man, whoever he is. Half wish I'd thought of it myself. "

"I am not saying that he isn't, " retorted Miss Fossett. "It isn't himI'm worrying about. "

"I preesume you mean 'he, '" suggested the Wee Laddie. "The verb 'tobe'--"

"For goodness' sake, " suggested Miss Fossett to Tommy, "give that mansomething to eat or drink. That's the worst of people who take upgrammar late in life. Like all converts, they become fanatical. "

"She's a ripping good sort, is Mary Ramsbotham, " exclaimed Grindleyjunior, printer and publisher of _Good Humour_. "The marvel to me isthat no man hitherto has ever had the sense to want her. "

"Oh, you men!" cried Miss Fossett. "A pretty face and an empty head isall you want. "

"Must they always go together?" laughed Mrs. Grindley junior, _nee_Helvetia Appleyard. 

"Exceptions prove the rule, " grunted Miss Fossett. 

"What a happy saying that is, " smiled Mrs. Grindley junior. "I wondersometimes how conversation was ever carried on before it was invented. "

"De man who would fall in love wid our dear frent Mary, " thought Dr. Smith, "he must be quite egsceptional. "

"You needn't talk about her as if she was a monster--I mean were, "corrected herself Miss Fossett, with a hasty glance towards the WeeLaddie. "There isn't a man I know that's worthy of her. "

"I mean, " explained the doctor, "dat he must be a man of character--ofbrain. Id is de noble man dat is attracted by de noble woman. "

"By the chorus-girl more often, " suggested Miss Fossett. 

"We must hope for the best, " counselled Peter. "I cannot believe that aclever, capable woman like Mary Ramsbotham would make a fool of herself. "

"From what I have seen, " replied Miss Fossett, "it's just the cleverpeople--as regards this particular matter--who do make fools ofthemselves. "

Unfortunately Miss Fossett's judgment proved to be correct. On beingintroduced a fortnight later to Miss Ramsbotham's fiance, the impulse ofBohemia was to exclaim, "Great Scott! Whatever in the name of--" Thenon catching sight of Miss Ramsbotham's transfigured face and tremblinghands Bohemia recollected itself in time to murmur instead: "Delighted, I'm sure!" and to offer mechanical congratulations. Reginald Peters wasa pretty but remarkably foolish-looking lad of about two-and-twenty, withcurly hair and receding chin; but to Miss Ramsbotham evidently apromising Apollo. Her first meeting with him had taken place at one ofthe many political debating societies then in fashion, attendance atwhich Miss Ramsbotham found useful for purposes of journalistic "copy. "Miss Ramsbotham, hitherto a Radical of pronounced views, he had succeededunder three months in converting into a strong supporter of theGentlemanly Party. His feeble political platitudes, which a little whilebefore she would have seized upon merrily to ridicule, she now satdrinking in, her plain face suffused with admiration. Away from him andin connection with those subjects--somewhat numerous--about which he knewlittle and cared less, she retained her sense and humour; but in hispresence she remained comparatively speechless, gazing up into hissomewhat watery eyes with the grateful expression of one learning wisdomfrom a master. 

Her absurd adoration--irritating beyond measure to her friends, and whicheven to her lover, had he possessed a grain of sense, would have appearedridiculous--to Master Peters was evidently a gratification. Of selfish, exacting nature, he must have found the services of this brilliant womanof the world of much practical advantage. Knowing all the mostinteresting people in London, it was her pride and pleasure to introducehim everywhere. Her friends put up with him for her sake; to please hermade him welcome, did their best to like him, and disguised theirfailure. The free entry to a places of amusement saved his limitedpurse. Her influence, he had instinct enough to perceive, could not failto be of use to him in his profession: that of a barrister. She praisedhim to prominent solicitors, took him to tea with judges' wives, interested examiners on his behalf. In return he overlooked her manydisadvantages, and did not fail to let her know it. Miss Ramsbotham'sgratitude was boundless. 

"I do so wish I were younger and better looking, " she sighed to the bosomfriend. "For myself, I don't mind; I have got used to it. But it is sohard on Reggie. He feels it, I know he does, though he never openlycomplains. "

"He would be a cad if he did, " answered Susan Fossett, who having triedconscientiously for a month to tolerate the fellow, had in the enddeclared her inability even to do more than avoid open expression ofcordial dislike. "Added to which I don't quite see of what use it wouldbe. You never told him you were young and pretty, did you?"

"I told him, my dear, " replied Miss Ramsbotham, "the actual truth. Idon't want to take any credit for doing so; it seemed the best course. You see, unfortunately, I look my age. With most men it would have madea difference. You have no idea how good he is. He assured me he hadengaged himself to me with his eyes open, and that there was no need todwell upon unpleasant topics. It is so wonderful to me that he shouldcare for me--he who could have half the women in London at his feet. "

"Yes, he's the type that would attract them, I daresay, " agreed SusanFossett. "But are you quite sure that he does?--care for you, I mean. "

"My dear, " returned Miss Ramsbotham, "you remember Rochefoucauld'sdefinition. 'One loves, the other consents to be loved. ' If he willonly let me do that I shall be content. It is more than I had any rightto expect. "

"Oh, you are a fool, " told her bluntly her bosom friend. 

"I know I am, " admitted Miss Ramsbotham; "but I had no idea that being afool was so delightful. "

Bohemia grew day by day more indignant and amazed. Young Peters was noteven a gentleman. All the little offices of courtship he left to her. Itwas she who helped him on with his coat, and afterwards adjusted her owncloak; she who carried the parcel, she who followed into and out of therestaurant. Only when he thought anyone was watching would he make anyattempt to behave to her with even ordinary courtesy. He bullied her, contradicted her in public, ignored her openly. Bohemia fumed withimpotent rage, yet was bound to confess that so far as Miss Ramsbothamherself was concerned he had done more to make her happy than had everall Bohemia put together. A tender light took up its dwelling in hereyes, which for the first time it was noticed were singularly deep andexpressive. The blood, of which she possessed if anything too much, nowcame and went, so that her cheeks, in place of their insistent red, tookon a varied pink and white. Life had entered her thick dark hair, givingto it shade and shadow. 

The woman began to grow younger. She put on flesh. Sex, hithertodormant, began to show itself; femininities peeped out. New tones, suggesting possibilities, crept into her voice. Bohemia congratulateditself that the affair, after all, might turn out well. 

Then Master Peters spoiled everything by showing a better side to hisnature, and, careless of all worldly considerations, falling in lovehimself, honestly, with a girl at the bun shop. He did the best thingunder the circumstances that he could have done: told Miss Ramsbotham theplain truth, and left the decision in her hands. 

Miss Ramsbotham acted as anyone who knew her would have foretold. Possibly, in the silence of her delightful little four-roomed flat overthe tailor's shop in Marylebone Road, her sober, worthy maid dismissedfor a holiday, she may have shed some tears; but, if so, no trace of themwas allowed to mar the peace of mind of Mr. Peters. She merely thankedhim for being frank with her, and by a little present pain saving themboth a future of disaster. It was quite understandable; she knew he hadnever really been in love with her. She had thought him the type of manthat never does fall in love, as the word is generally understood--MissRamsbotham did not add, with anyone except himself--and had that been thecase, and he content merely to be loved, they might have been happytogether. As it was--well, it was fortunate he had found out the truthbefore it was too late. Now, would he take her advice?

Mr. Peters was genuinely grateful, as well he might be, and would consentto any suggestion that Miss Ramsbotham might make; felt he had behavedshabbily, was very much ashamed of himself, would be guided in all thingsby Miss Ramsbotham, whom he should always regard as the truest offriends, and so on. 

Miss Ramsbotham's suggestion was this: Mr. Peters, no more robust of bodythan of mind, had been speaking for some time past of travel. Havingnothing to do now but to wait for briefs, why not take this opportunityof visiting his only well-to-do relative, a Canadian farmer. Meanwhile, let Miss Peggy leave the bun shop and take up her residence in MissRamsbotham's flat. Let there be no engagement--merely an understanding. The girl was pretty, charming, good, Miss Ramsbotham felt sure; but--well, a little education, a little training in manners and behaviour would notbe amiss, would it? If, on returning at the end of six months or a year, Mr. Peters was still of the same mind, and Peggy also wishful, the affairwould be easier, would it not?

There followed further expressions of eternal gratitude. Miss Ramsbothamswept all such aside. It would be pleasant to have a bright young girlto live with her; teaching, moulding such an one would be a pleasantoccupation. 

And thus it came to pass that Mr. Reginald Peters disappeared for a whilefrom Bohemia, to the regret of but few, and there entered into it onePeggy Nutcombe, as pretty a child as ever gladdened the eye of man. Shehad wavy, flaxen hair, a complexion that might have been manufacturedfrom the essence of wild roses, the nose that Tennyson bestows upon hismiller's daughter, and a mouth worthy of the Lowther Arcade in its daysof glory. Add to this the quick grace of a kitten, with the appealinghelplessness of a baby in its first short frock, and you will be able toforgive Mr. Reginald Peters his faithlessness. Bohemia looked from oneto the other--from the fairy to the woman--and ceased to blame. That thefairy was as stupid as a camel, as selfish as a pig, and as lazy as anigger Bohemia did not know; nor--so long as her figure and complexionremained what it was--would its judgment have been influenced, even if ithad. I speak of the Bohemian male. 

But that is just what her figure and complexion did not do. Mr. ReginaldPeters, finding his uncle old, feeble, and inclined to be fond, deemed itto his advantage to stay longer than he had intended. Twelve months wentby. Miss Peggy was losing her kittenish grace, was becoming lumpy. Acouple of pimples--one near the right-hand corner of her rosebud mouth, and another on the left-hand side of her tip-tilted nose--marred her babyface. At the end of another six months the men called her plump, and thewomen fat. Her walk was degenerating into a waddle; stairs caused her togrunt. She took to breathing with her mouth, and Bohemia noticed thather teeth were small, badly coloured, and uneven. The pimples grew insize and number. The cream and white of her complexion was merging intoa general yellow. A certain greasiness of skin was manifesting itself. Babyish ways in connection with a woman who must have weighed abouteleven stone struck Bohemia as incongruous. Her manners, judged alone, had improved. But they had not improved her. They did not belong toher; they did not fit her. They sat on her as Sunday broadcloth on ayokel. She had learned to employ her "h's" correctly, and to speak goodgrammar. This gave to her conversation a painfully artificial air. Thelittle learning she had absorbed was sufficient to bestow upon her anangry consciousness of her own invincible ignorance. 

Meanwhile, Miss Ramsbotham had continued upon her course of rejuvenation. At twenty-nine she had looked thirty-five; at thirty-two she looked not aday older than five-and-twenty. Bohemia felt that should she retrogradefurther at the same rate she would soon have to shorten her frocks andlet down her hair. A nervous excitability had taken possession of herthat was playing strange freaks not only with her body, but with hermind. What it gave to the one it seemed to take from the other. Oldfriends, accustomed to enjoy with her the luxury of plain speech, wondered in vain what they had done to offend her. Her desire was nowtowards new friends, new faces. Her sense of humour appeared to bedeparting from her; it became unsafe to jest with her. On the otherhand, she showed herself greedy for admiration and flattery. Her formerchums stepped back astonished to watch brainless young fops making theirway with her by complimenting her upon her blouse, or whispering to hersome trite nonsense about her eyelashes. From her work she took a goodpercentage of her brain power to bestow it on her clothes. Of course, she was successful. Her dresses suited her, showed her to the bestadvantage. Beautiful she could never be, and had sense enough to knowit; but a charming, distinguished-looking woman she had already become. Also, she was on the high road to becoming a vain, egotistical, commonplace woman. 

It was during the process of this, her metamorphosis, that Peter Hope oneevening received a note from her announcing her intention of visiting himthe next morning at the editorial office of _Good Humour_. She added ina postscript that she would prefer the interview to be private. 

Punctually to the time appointed Miss Ramsbotham arrived. MissRamsbotham, contrary to her custom, opened conversation with the weather. Miss Ramsbotham was of opinion that there was every possibility of rain. Peter Hope's experience was that there was always possibility of rain. 

"How is the Paper doing?" demanded Miss Ramsbotham. 

The Paper--for a paper not yet two years old--was doing well. "We expectvery shortly--very shortly indeed, " explained Peter Hope, "to turn thecorner. "

"Ah! that 'corner, '" sympathised Miss Ramsbotham. 

"I confess, " smiled Peter Hope, "it doesn't seem to be exactly a right-angled corner. One reaches it as one thinks. But it takes some gettinground--what I should describe as a cornery corner. "

"What you want, " thought Miss Ramsbotham, "are one or two popularfeatures. "

"Popular features, " agreed Peter guardedly, scenting temptation, "are notto be despised, provided one steers clear of the vulgar and thecommonplace. "

"A Ladies' Page!" suggested Miss Ramsbotham--"a page that should make thewoman buy it. The women, believe me, are going to be of more and moreimportance to the weekly press. "

"But why should she want a special page to herself?" demanded Peter Hope. "Why should not the paper as a whole appeal to her?"

"It doesn't, " was all Miss Ramsbotham could offer in explanation. 

"We give her literature and the drama, poetry, fiction, the higherpolitics, the--"

"I know, I know, " interrupted Miss Ramsbotham, who of late, among otherfailings new to her, had developed a tendency towards impatience; "butshe gets all that in half a dozen other papers. I have thought it out. "Miss Ramsbotham leaned further across the editorial desk and sunk hervoice unconsciously to a confidential whisper. "Tell her the comingfashions. Discuss the question whether hat or bonnet makes you look theyounger. Tell her whether red hair or black is to be the new colour, what size waist is being worn by the best people. Oh, come!" laughedMiss Ramsbotham in answer to Peter's shocked expression; "one cannotreform the world and human nature all at once. You must appeal topeople's folly in order to get them to listen to your wisdom. Make yourpaper a success first. You can make it a power afterwards. "

"But, " argued Peter, "there are already such papers--papers devoted to--tothat sort of thing, and to nothing else. "

"At sixpence!" replied the practical Miss Ramsbotham. "I am thinking ofthe lower middle-class woman who has twenty pounds a year to spend ondress, and who takes twelve hours a day to think about it, poor creature. My dear friend, there is a fortune in it. Think of the advertisements. "

Poor Peter groaned--old Peter, the dreamer of dreams. But for thought ofTommy! one day to be left alone to battle with a stony-eyed, deaf world, Peter most assuredly would have risen in his wrath, would have said tohis distinguished-looking temptress, "Get thee behind me, MissRamsbotham. My journalistic instinct whispers to me that your scheme, judged by the mammon of unrighteousness, is good. It is a new departure. Ten years hence half the London journals will have adopted it. There ismoney in it. But what of that? Shall I for mere dross sell my editorialsoul, turn the temple of the Mighty Pen into a den of--of milliners! Goodmorning, Miss Ramsbotham. I grieve for you. I grieve for you as for afellow-worker once inspired by devotion to a noble calling, who hasfallen from her high estate. Good morning, madam. "

So Peter thought as he sat tattooing with his finger-tips upon the desk;but only said--

"It would have to be well done. "

"Everything would depend upon how it was done, " agreed Miss Ramsbotham. "Badly done, the idea would be wasted. You would be merely giving itaway to some other paper. "

"Do you know of anyone?" queried Peter. 

"I was thinking of myself, " answered Miss Ramsbotham. 

"I am sorry, " said Peter Hope. 

"Why?" demanded Miss Ramsbotham. "Don't you think I could do it?"

"I think, " said Peter, "no one could do it better. I am sorry you shouldwish to do it--that is all. "

"I want to do it, " replied Miss Ramsbotham, a note of doggedness in hervoice. 

"How much do you propose to charge me?" Peter smiled. 

"Nothing. "

"My dear lady--"

"I could not in conscience, " explained Miss Ramsbotham, "take paymentfrom both sides. I am going to make a good deal out of it. I am goingto make out of it at least three hundred a year, and they will be glad topay it. "

"Who will?"

"The dressmakers. I shall be one of the most stylish women in London, "laughed Miss Ramsbotham. 

"You used to be a sensible woman, " Peter reminded her. 

"I want to live. "

"Can't you manage to do it without--without being a fool, my dear. "

"No, " answered Miss Ramsbotham, "a woman can't. I've tried it. "

"Very well, " agreed Peter, "be it so. "

Peter had risen. He laid his shapely, white old hand upon the woman'sshoulder. "Tell me when you want to give it up. I shall be glad. "

Thus it was arranged. _Good Humour_ gained circulation and--of moreimportance yet--advertisements; and Miss Ramsbotham, as she hadpredicted, the reputation of being one of the best-dressed women inLondon. Her reason for desiring such reputation Peter Hope had shrewdlyguessed. Two months later his suspicions were confirmed. Mr. ReginaldPeters, his uncle being dead, was on his way back to England. 

His return was awaited with impatience only by the occupants of thelittle flat in the Marylebone Road; and between these two the differenceof symptom was marked. Mistress Peggy, too stupid to comprehend thechange that had been taking place in her, looked forward to her lover'sarrival with delight. Mr. Reginald Peters, independently of hisprofession, was in consequence of his uncle's death a man of means. MissRamsbotham's tutelage, which had always been distasteful to her, wouldnow be at an end. She would be a "lady" in the true sense of theword--according to Miss Peggy's definition, a woman with nothing to dobut eat and drink, and nothing to think of but dress. Miss Ramsbotham, on the other hand, who might have anticipated the home-coming of herquondam admirer with hope, exhibited a strange condition of alarmedmisery, which increased from day to day as the date drew nearer. 

The meeting--whether by design or accident was never known--took place atan evening party given by the proprietors of a new journal. Thecircumstance was certainly unfortunate for poor Peggy, whom Bohemia beganto pity. Mr. Peters, knowing both women would be there and so on thelook-out, saw in the distance among the crowd of notabilities a superblymillinered, tall, graceful woman, whose face recalled sensations he couldnot for the moment place. Chiefly noticeable about her were herexquisite neck and arms, and the air of perfect breeding with which shemoved, talking and laughing, through the distinguished, fashionablethrong. Beside her strutted, nervously aggressive, a vulgar, fat, pimply, shapeless young woman, attracting universal attention by theincongruity of her presence in the room. On being greeted by thegraceful lady of the neck and arms, the conviction forced itself upon himthat this could be no other than the once Miss Ramsbotham, plain of faceand indifferent of dress, whose very appearance he had almost forgotten. On being greeted gushingly as "Reggie" by the sallow-complexioned, over-dressed young woman he bowed with evident astonishment, and apologisedfor a memory that, so he assured the lady, had always been to him asource of despair. 

Of course, he thanked his stars--and Miss Ramsbotham--that the engagementhad never been formal. So far as Mr. Peters was concerned, there was anend to Mistress Peggy's dream of an existence of everlasting breakfastsin bed. Leaving the Ramsbotham flat, she returned to the maternal roof, and there a course of hard work and plain living tended greatly toimprove her figure and complexion; so that in course of time, the godssmiling again upon her, she married a foreman printer, and passes out ofthis story. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Reginald Peters--older, and the possessor, perhaps, ofmore sense--looked at Miss Ramsbotham with new eyes, and now nottolerated but desired her. Bohemia waited to assist at the happytermination of a pretty and somewhat novel romance. Miss Ramsbotham hadshown no sign of being attracted elsewhere. Flattery, compliment, shecontinued to welcome; but merely, so it seemed, as favourable criticism. Suitors more fit and proper were now not lacking, for Miss Ramsbotham, though a woman less desirable when won, came readily to the thought ofwooing. But to all such she turned a laughing face. 

"I like her for it, " declared Susan Fossett; "and he has improved--therewas room for it--though I wish it could have been some other. There wasJack Herring--it would have been so much more suitable. Or even Joe, inspite of his size. But it's her wedding, not ours; and she will nevercare for anyone else. "

And Bohemia bought its presents, and had them ready, but never gave them. A few months later Mr. Reginald Peters returned to Canada, a bachelor. Miss Ramsbotham expressed her desire for another private interview withPeter Hope. 

"I may as well keep on the Letter to Clorinda, " thought Miss Ramsbotham. "I have got into the knack of it. But I will get you to pay me for it inthe ordinary way. "

"I would rather have done so from the beginning, " explained Peter. 

"I know. I could not in conscience, as I told you, take from both sides. For the future--well, they have said nothing; but I expect they arebeginning to get tired of it. "

"And you!" questioned Peter. 

"Yes. I am tired of it myself, " laughed Miss Ramsbotham. "Life isn'tlong enough to be a well-dressed woman. "

"You have done with all that?"

"I hope so, " answered Miss Ramsbotham. 

"And don't want to talk any more about it?" suggested Peter. 

"Not just at present. I should find it so difficult to explain. "

By others, less sympathetic than old Peter, vigorous attempts were madeto solve the mystery. Miss Ramsbotham took enjoyment in cleverly evadingthese tormentors. Thwarted at every point, the gossips turned to otherthemes. Miss Ramsbotham found interest once again in the higher branchesof her calling; became again, by slow degrees, the sensible, frank, 'goodsort' that Bohemia had known, liked, respected--everything but loved. 

Years later, to Susan Fossett, the case was made clear; and through SusanFossett, a nice enough woman but talkative, those few still interestedlearned the explanation. 

"Love, " said Miss Ramsbotham to the bosom friend, "is not regulated byreason. As you say, there were many men I might have married with muchmore hope of happiness. But I never cared for any other man. He was notintellectual, was egotistical, possibly enough selfish. The man shouldalways be older than the woman; he was younger, and he was a weakcharacter. Yet I loved him. "

"I am glad you didn't marry him, " said the bosom friend. 

"So am I, " agreed Miss Ramsbotham. 

"If you can't trust me, " had said the bosom friend at this point, "don't. "

"I meant to do right, " said Miss Ramsbotham, "upon my word of honour Idid, in the beginning. "

"I don't understand, " said the bosom friend. 

"If she had been my own child, " continued Miss Ramsbotham, "I could nothave done more--in the beginning. I tried to teach her, to put somesense into her. Lord! the hours I wasted on that little idiot! I marvelat my own patience. She was nothing but an animal. An animal! she hadonly an animal's vices. To eat and drink and sleep was her idea ofhappiness; her one ambition male admiration, and she hadn't characterenough to put sufficient curb upon her stomach to retain it. I reasonedwith her, I pleaded with her, I bullied her. Had I persisted I mighthave succeeded by sheer physical and mental strength in restraining herfrom ruining herself. I was winning. I had made her frightened of me. Had I gone on, I might have won. By dragging her out of bed in themorning, by insisting upon her taking exercise, by regulating everyparticle of food and drink she put into her mouth, I kept the littlebeast in good condition for nearly three months. Then, I had to go awayinto the country for a few days; she swore she would obey myinstructions. When I came back I found she had been in bed most of thetime, and had been living chiefly on chocolate and cakes. She was curledup asleep in an easy-chair, snoring with her mouth wide open, when Iopened the door. And at sight of that picture the devil came to me andtempted me. Why should I waste my time, wear myself out in mind andbody, that the man I loved should marry a pig because it looked like anangel? 'Six months' wallowing according to its own desires would revealit in its true shape. So from that day I left it to itself. No, worsethan that--I don't want to spare myself--I encouraged her. I let herhave a fire in her bedroom, and half her meals in bed. I let her havechocolate with tablespoonfuls of cream floating on the top: she loved it. She was never really happy except when eating. I let her order her ownmeals. I took a fiendish delight watching the dainty limbs turning toshapeless fat, the pink-and-white complexion growing blotchy. It isflesh that man loves; brain and mind and heart and soul! he never thinksof them. This little pink-and-white sow could have cut me out withSolomon himself. Why should such creatures have the world arranged forthem, and we not be allowed to use our brains in our own defence? Butfor my looking-glass I might have resisted the temptation, but I alwayshad something of the man in me: the sport of the thing appealed to me. Isuppose it was the nervous excitement under which I was living that waschanging me. All my sap was going into my body. Given sufficient time, I might meet her with her own weapons, animal against animal. Well, youknow the result: I won. There was no doubt about his being in love withme. His eyes would follow me round the room, feasting on me. I hadbecome a fine animal. Men desired me, Do you know why I refused him? Hewas in every way a better man than the silly boy I had fallen in lovewith; but he came back with a couple of false teeth: I saw the goldsetting one day when he opened his mouth to laugh. I don't say for amoment, my dear, there is no such thing as love--love pure, ennobling, worthy of men and women, its roots in the heart and nowhere else. Butthat love I had missed; and the other! I saw it in its true light. Ihad fallen in love with him because he was a pretty, curly-headed boy. Hehad fallen in love with Peggy when she was pink-and-white and slim. Ishall always see the look that came into his eyes when she spoke to himat the hotel, the look of disgust and loathing. The girl was the same;it was only her body that had grown older. I could see his eyes fixedupon my arms and neck. I had got to grow old in time, brown skinned, andwrinkled. I thought of him, growing bald, fat--"

"If you had fallen in love with the right man, " had said Susan Fossett, "those ideas would not have come to you. "

"I know, " said Miss Ramsbotham. "He will have to like me thin and inthese clothes, just because I am nice, and good company, and helpful. That is the man I am waiting for. "

He never came along. A charming, bright-eyed, white-haired lady occupiesalone a little flat in the Marylebone Road, looks in occasionally at theWriters' Club. She is still Miss Ramsbotham. 

Bald-headed gentlemen feel young again talking to her: she is sosympathetic, so big-minded, so understanding. Then, hearing the clockstrike, tear themselves from her with a sigh, and return home--some ofthem--to stupid shrewish wives. 

STORY THE FIFTH--Joey Loveredge agrees--on certain terms--to join theCompany

The most popular member of the Autolycus Club was undoubtedly JosephLoveredge. Small, chubby, clean-shaven, his somewhat longish, soft, brown hair parted in the middle, strangers fell into the error ofassuming him to be younger than he really was. It is on record that aleading lady novelist--accepting her at her own estimate--irritated byhis polite but firm refusal to allow her entrance into his own editorialoffice without appointment, had once boxed his ears, under the impressionthat he was his own office-boy. Guests to the Autolycus Club, on beingintroduced to him, would give to him kind messages to take home to hisfather, with whom they remembered having been at school together. Thissort of thing might have annoyed anyone with less sense of humour. JosephLoveredge would tell such stories himself, keenly enjoying the jest--waseven suspected of inventing some of the more improbable. Another facttending to the popularity of Joseph Loveredge among all classes, over andabove his amiability, his wit, his genuine kindliness, and hisnever-failing fund of good stories, was that by care and inclination hehad succeeded in remaining a bachelor. Many had been the attempts tocapture him; nor with the passing of the years had interest in the sportshown any sign of diminution. Well over the frailties and distempers sodangerous to youth, of staid and sober habits, with an ever-increasingcapital invested in sound securities, together with an ever-increasingincome from his pen, with a tastefully furnished house overlookingRegent's Park, an excellent and devoted cook and house-keeper, andrelatives mostly settled in the Colonies, Joseph Loveredge, thoughinexperienced girls might pass him by with a contemptuous sniff, wasrecognised by ladies of maturer judgment as a prize not too often dangledbefore the eyes of spinsterhood. Old foxes--so we are assured by kind-hearted country gentlemen--rather enjoy than otherwise a day with thehounds. However that may be, certain it is that Joseph Loveredge, confident of himself, one presumes, showed no particular disinclinationto the chase. Perhaps on the whole he preferred the society of his ownsex, with whom he could laugh and jest with more freedom, to whom hecould tell his stories as they came to him without the trouble of havingto turn them over first in his own mind; but, on the other hand, Joeymade no attempt to avoid female company whenever it came his way; andthen no cavalier could render himself more agreeable, more unobtrusivelyattentive. Younger men stood by, in envious admiration of the ease withwhich in five minutes he would establish himself on terms of cosyfriendship with the brilliant beauty before whose gracious coldness theyhad stood shivering for months; the daring with which he would tuck underhis arm, so to speak, the prettiest girl in the room, smooth down as ifby magic her hundred prickles, and tease her out of her overwhelmingsense of her own self-importance. The secret of his success was, probably, that he was not afraid of them. Desiring nothing from thembeyond companionableness, a reasonable amount of appreciation for hisjokes--which without being exceptionally stupid they would have found itdifficult to withhold--with just sufficient information and intelligenceto make conversation interesting, there was nothing about him by whichthey could lay hold of him. Of course, that rendered them particularlyanxious to lay hold of him. Joseph's lady friends might, roughlyspeaking, be divided into two groups: the unmarried, who wanted to marryhim to themselves; and the married, who wanted to marry him to somebodyelse. It would be a social disaster, the latter had agreed amongthemselves, if Joseph Loveredge should never wed. 

"He would make such an excellent husband for poor Bridget. "

"Or Gladys. I wonder how old Gladys really is?"

"Such a nice, kind little man. "

"And when one thinks of the sort of men that _are_ married, it does seemsuch a pity!"

"I wonder why he never has married, because he's just the sort of manyou'd think _would_ have married. "

"I wonder if he ever was in love. "

"Oh, my dear, you don't mean to tell me that a man has reached the age offorty without ever being in love!"

The ladies would sigh. 

"I do hope if ever he does marry, it will be somebody nice. Men are soeasily deceived. "

"I shouldn't be surprised myself a bit if something came of it withBridget. She's a dear girl, Bridget--so genuine. "

"Well, I think myself, dear, if it's anyone, it's Gladys. I should be soglad to see poor dear Gladys settled. "

The unmarried kept their thoughts more to themselves. Each one, uponreflection, saw ground for thinking that Joseph Loveredge had given proofof feeling preference for herself. The irritating thing was that, onfurther reflection, it was equally clear that Joseph Loveredge had shownsigns of preferring most of the others. 

Meanwhile Joseph Loveredge went undisturbed upon his way. At eighto'clock in the morning Joseph's housekeeper entered the room with a cupof tea and a dry biscuit. At eight-fifteen Joseph Loveredge arose andperformed complicated exercises on an indiarubber pulley, warranted, ifpersevered in, to bestow grace upon the figure and elasticity upon thelimbs. Joseph Loveredge persevered steadily, and had done so for years, and was himself contented with the result, which, seeing it concernednobody else, was all that could be desired. At half-past eight onMondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, Joseph Loveredge breakfasted on one cupof tea, brewed by himself; one egg, boiled by himself; and two pieces oftoast, the first one spread with marmalade, the second with butter. OnTuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays Joseph Loveredge discarded eggs andate a rasher of bacon. On Sundays Joseph Loveredge had both eggs andbacon, but then allowed himself half an hour longer for reading thepaper. At nine-thirty Joseph Loveredge left the house for the office ofthe old-established journal of which he was the incorruptible andhonoured City editor. At one-forty-five, having left his office at one-thirty, Joseph Loveredge entered the Autolycus Club and sat down tolunch. Everything else in Joseph's life was arranged with similarpreciseness, so far as was possible with the duties of a City editor. Monday evening Joseph spent with musical friends at Brixton. Friday wasJoseph's theatre night. On Tuesdays and Thursdays he was open to receiveinvitations out to dinner; on Wednesdays and Saturdays he invited fourfriends to dine with him at Regent's Park. On Sundays, whatever theseason, Joseph Loveredge took an excursion into the country. He had hisregular hours for reading, his regular hours for thinking. Whether inFleet Street, or the Tyrol, on the Thames, or in the Vatican, you mightrecognise him from afar by his grey frock-coat, his patent-leather boots, his brown felt hat, his lavender tie. The man was a born bachelor. Whenthe news of his engagement crept through the smoky portals of theAutolycus Club nobody believed it. 

"Impossible!" asserted Jack Herring. "I've known Joey's life for fifteenyears. Every five minutes is arranged for. He could never have foundthe time to do it. "

"He doesn't like women, not in that way; I've heard him say so, "explained Alexander the Poet. "His opinion is that women are the artistsof Society--delightful as entertainers, but troublesome to live with. "

"I call to mind, " said the Wee Laddie, "a story he told me in this verraroom, barely three months agone: Some half a dozen of them were gong hometogether from the Devonshire. They had had a joyous evening, and one ofthem--Joey did not notice which--suggested their dropping in at his placejust for a final whisky. They were laughing and talking in the dining-room, when their hostess suddenly appeared upon the scene in a costume--soJoey described it--the charm of which was its variety. She was a nice-looking woman, Joey said, but talked too much; and when the first lulloccurred, Joey turned to the man sitting nighest to him, and who lookedbored, and suggested in a whisper that it was about time they went. 

"'Perhaps you had better go, ' assented the bored-looking man. 'Wish Icould come with you; but, you see, I live here. '"

"I don't believe it, " said Somerville the Briefless. "He's been crackinghis jokes, and some silly woman has taken him seriously. "

But the rumour grew into report, developed detail, lost all charm, expanded into plain recital of fact. Joey had not been seen within theClub for more than a week--in itself a deadly confirmation. The questionbecame: Who was she--what was she like?

"It's none of our set, or we should have heard something from her sidebefore now, " argued acutely Somerville the Briefless. 

"Some beastly kid who will invite us to dances and forget the supper, "feared Johnny Bulstrode, commonly called the Babe. "Old men always fallin love with young girls. "

"Forty, " explained severely Peter Hope, editor and part proprietor of_Good Humour_, "is not old. "

"Well, it isn't young, " persisted Johnny. 

"Good thing for you, Johnny, if it is a girl, " thought Jack Herring. "Somebody for you to play with. I often feel sorry for you, havingnobody but grown-up people to talk to. "

"They do get a bit stodgy after a certain age, " agreed the Babe. 

"I am hoping, " said Peter, "it will be some sensible, pleasant woman, alittle over thirty. He is a dear fellow, Loveredge; and forty is a verygood age for a man to marry. "

"Well, if I'm not married before I'm forty--" said the Babe. 

"Oh, don't you fret, " Jack Herring interrupted him--"a pretty boy likeyou! We will give a ball next season, and bring you out, if you'regood--get you off our hands in no time. "

It was August. Joey went away for his holiday without again entering theClub. The lady's name was Henrietta Elizabeth Doone. It was said by the_Morning Post_ that she was connected with the Doones of Gloucestershire. 

Doones of Gloucestershire--Doones of Gloucestershire mused MissRamsbotham, Society journalist, who wrote the weekly Letter to Clorinda, discussing the matter with Peter Hope in the editorial office of _GoodHumour_. "Knew a Doon who kept a big second-hand store in Euston Roadand called himself an auctioneer. He bought a small place inGloucestershire and added an 'e' to his name. Wonder if it's the same?"

"I had a cat called Elizabeth once, " said Peter Hope. 

"I don't see what that's got to do with it. "

"No, of course not, " agreed Peter. "But I was rather fond of it. It wasa quaint sort of animal, considered as a cat--would never speak toanother cat, and hated being out after ten o'clock at night. "

"What happened to it?" demanded Miss Ramsbotham. 

"Fell off a roof, " sighed Peter Hope. "Wasn't used to them. "

The marriage took place abroad, at the English Church at Montreux. Mr. And Mrs. Loveredge returned at the end of September. The Autolycus Clubsubscribed to send a present of a punch-bowl, left cards, and waited withcuriosity to see the bride. But no invitation arrived. Nor for a monthwas Joey himself seen within the Club. Then, one foggy afternoon, wakingafter a doze, with a cold cigar in his mouth, Jack Herring noticed he wasnot the only occupant of the smoking-room. In a far corner, near awindow, sat Joseph Loveredge reading a magazine. Jack Herring rubbed hiseyes, then rose and crossed the room. 

"I thought at first, " explained Jack Herring, recounting the incidentlater in the evening, "that I must be dreaming. There he sat, drinkinghis five o'clock whisky-and-soda, the same Joey Loveredge I had known forfifteen years; yet not the same. Not a feature altered, not a hair onhis head changed, yet the whole face was different; the same body, thesame clothes, but another man. We talked for half an hour; he rememberedeverything that Joey Loveredge had known. I couldn't understand it. Then, as the clock struck, and he rose, saying he must be home at half-past five, the explanation suddenly occurred to me: _Joey Loveredge wasdead_; _this was a married man_. "

"We don't want your feeble efforts at psychological romance, " told himSomerville the Briefless. "We want to know what you talked about. Deador married, the man who can drink whisky-and-soda must be heldresponsible for his actions. What's the little beggar mean by cutting usall in this way? Did he ask after any of us? Did he leave any messagefor any of us? Did he invite any of us to come an see him?"

"Yes, he did ask after nearly everybody; I was coming to that. But hedidn't leave any message. I didn't gather that he was pining for oldrelationships with any of us. "

"Well, I shall go round to the office to-morrow morning, " said Somervillethe Briefless, "and force my way in if necessary. This is gettingmysterious. "

But Somerville returned only to puzzle the Autolycus Club still further. Joey had talked about the weather, the state of political parties, hadreceived with unfeigned interest all gossip concerning his old friends;but about himself, his wife, nothing had been gleaned. Mrs. Loveredgewas well; Mrs. Loveredge's relations were also well. But at present Mrs. Loveredge was not receiving. 

Members of the Autolycus Club with time upon their hands took up thebusiness of private detectives. Mrs. Loveredge turned out to be ahandsome, well-dressed lady of about thirty, as Peter Hope had desired. At eleven in the morning, Mrs. Loveredge shopped in the neighbourhood ofthe Hampstead Road. In the afternoon, Mrs. Loveredge, in a hiredcarriage, would slowly promenade the Park, looking, it was noticed, withintense interest at the occupants of other carriages as they passed, butevidently having no acquaintances among them. The carriage, as a generalrule, would call at Joey's office at five, and Mr. And Mrs. Loveredgewould drive home. Jack Herring, as the oldest friend, urged by the othermembers, took the bull by the horns and called boldly. On neitheroccasion was Mrs. Loveredge at home. 

"I'm damned if I go again!" said Jack. "She was in the second time, Iknow. I watched her into the house. Confound the stuck-up pair ofthem!"

Bewilderment gave place to indignation. Now and again Joey would creep, a mental shadow of his former self, into the Club where once every memberwould have risen with a smile to greet him. They gave him curt answersand turned away from him. Peter Hope one afternoon found him therealone, standing with his hands in his pockets looking out of window. Peter was fifty, so he said, maybe a little older; men of forty were tohim mere boys. So Peter, who hated mysteries, stepped forward with adetermined air and clapped Joey on the shoulder. 

"I want to know, Joey, " said Peter, "I want to know whether I am to go onliking you, or whether I've got to think poorly of you. Out with it. "

Joey turned to him a face so full of misery that Peter's heart wastouched. "You can't tell how wretched it makes me, " said Joey. "Ididn't know it was possible to feel so uncomfortable as I have feltduring these last three months. "

"It's the wife, I suppose?" suggested Peter. 

"She's a dear girl. She only has one fault. "

"It's a pretty big one, " returned Peter. "I should try and break her ofit if I were you. "

"Break her of it!" cried the little man. "You might as well advise me tobreak a brick wall with my head. I had no idea what they were like. Inever dreamt it. "

"But what is her objection to us? We are clean, we are fairlyintelligent--"

"My dear Peter, do you think I haven't said all that, and a hundredthings more? A woman! she gets an idea into her head, and every argumentagainst it hammers it in further. She has gained her notion of what shecalls Bohemia from the comic journals. It's our own fault, we have doneit ourselves. There's no persuading her that it's a libel. "

"Won't she see a few of us--judge for herself? There's Porson--whyPorson might have been a bishop. Or Somerville--Somerville's Oxfordaccent is wasted here. It has no chance. "

"It isn't only that, " explained Joey; "she has ambitions, socialambitions. She thinks that if we begin with the wrong set, we'll neverget into the right. We have three friends at present, and, so far as Ican see, are never likely to have any more. My dear boy, you'd neverbelieve there could exist such bores. There's a man and his wife namedHolyoake. They dine with us on Thursdays, and we dine with them onTuesdays. Their only title to existence consists in their having acousin in the House of Lords; they claim no other right themselves. Heis a widower, getting on for eighty. Apparently he's the only relativethey have, and when he dies, they talk of retiring into the country. There's a fellow named Cutler, who visited once at Marlborough House inconnection with a charity. You'd think to listen to him that he haddesigns upon the throne. The most tiresome of them all is a noisy womanwho, as far as I can make out, hasn't any name at all. 'Miss Montgomery'is on her cards, but that is only what she calls herself. Who she reallyis! It would shake the foundations of European society if known. We sitand talk about the aristocracy; we don't seem to know anybody else. Itried on one occasion a little sarcasm as a corrective--recountedconversations between myself and the Prince of Wales, in which Iinvariably addressed him as 'Teddy. ' It sounds tall, I know, but thosepeople took it in. I was too astonished to undeceive them at the time, the consequence is I am a sort of little god to them. They come round meand ask for more. What am I to do? I am helpless among them. I'venever had anything to do before with the really first-prize idiot; theusual type, of course, one knows, but these, if you haven't met them, areinconceivable. I try insulting them; they don't even know I am insultingthem. Short of dragging them out of their chairs and kicking them roundthe room, I don't see how to make them understand it. "

"And Mrs. Loveredge?" asked the sympathetic Peter, "is she--"

"Between ourselves, " said Joey, sinking his voice to a needless whisper, seeing he and Peter were the sole occupants of the smoking-room--"Icouldn't, of course, say it to a younger man--but between ourselves, mywife is a charming woman. You don't know her. "

"Doesn't seem much chance of my ever doing so, " laughed Peter. 

"So graceful, so dignified, so--so queenly, " continued the little man, with rising enthusiasm. "She has only one fault--she has no sense ofhumour. "

To Peter, as it has been said, men of forty were mere boys. 

"My dear fellow, whatever could have induced you--"

"I know--I know all that, " interrupted the mere boy. "Nature arranges iton purpose. Tall and solemn prigs marry little women with turned-upnoses. Cheerful little fellows like myself--we marry serious, statelywomen. If it were otherwise, the human race would be split up intospecies. "

"Of course, if you were actuated by a sense of public duty--"

"Don't be a fool, Peter Hope, " returned the little man. "I'm in lovewith my wife just as she is, and always shall be. I know the woman witha sense of humour, and of the two I prefer the one without. The Junotype is my ideal. I must take the rough with the smooth. One can't havea jolly, chirpy Juno, and wouldn't care for her if one could. "

"Then are you going to give up all your old friends?"

"Don't suggest it, " pleaded the little man. "You don't know howmiserable it makes me--the mere idea. Tell them to be patient. Thesecret of dealing with women, I have found, is to do nothing rashly. " Theclock struck five. "I must go now, " said Joey. "Don't misjudge her, Peter, and don't let the others. She's a dear girl. You'll like her, all of you, when you know her. A dear girl! She only has that onefault. "

Joey went out. 

Peter did his best that evening to explain the true position of affairswithout imputing snobbery to Mrs. Loveredge. It was a difficult task, and Peter cannot be said to have accomplished it successfully. Anger andindignation against Joey gave place to pity. The members of theAutolycus Club also experienced a little irritation on their own account. 

"What does the woman take us for?" demanded Somerville the Briefless. "Doesn't she know that we lunch with real actors and actresses, that oncea year we are invited to dine at the Mansion House?"

"Has she never heard of the aristocracy of genius?" demanded Alexanderthe Poet. 

"The explanation may be that possibly she has seen it, " feared the WeeLaddie. 

"One of us ought to waylay the woman, " argued the Babe--"insist upon hertalking to him for ten minutes. I've half a mind to do it myself. "

Jack Herring said nothing--seemed thoughtful. 

The next morning Jack Herring, still thoughtful, called at the editorialoffices of _Good Humour_, in Crane Court, and borrowed Miss Ramsbotham'sDebrett. Three days later Jack Herring informed the Club casually thathe had dined the night before with Mr. And Mrs. Loveredge. The Club gaveJack Herring politely to understand that they regarded him as a liar, andproceeded to demand particulars. 

"If I wasn't there, " explained Jack Herring, with unanswerable logic, "how can I tell you anything about it?"

This annoyed the Club, whose curiosity had been whetted. Three members, acting in the interests of the whole, solemnly undertook to believewhatever he might tell them. But Jack Herring's feelings had beenwounded. 

"When gentlemen cast a doubt upon another gentleman's veracity--"

"We didn't cast a doubt, " explained Somerville the Briefless. "We merelysaid that we personally did not believe you. We didn't say we couldn'tbelieve you; it is a case for individual effort. If you give usparticulars bearing the impress of reality, supported by details that donot unduly contradict each other, we are prepared to put aside ournatural suspicions and face the possibility of your statement beingcorrect. "

"It was foolish of me, " said Jack Herring. "I thought perhaps it wouldamuse you to hear what sort of a woman Mrs. Loveredge was like--somedescription of Mrs. Loveredge's uncle. Miss Montgomery, friend of Mrs. Loveredge, is certainly one of the most remarkable women I have ever met. Of course, that isn't her real name. But, as I have said, it was foolishof me. These people--you will never meet them, you will never see them;of what interest can they be to you?"

"They had forgotten to draw down the blinds, and he climbed up a lamp-post and looked through the window, " was the solution of the problem putforward by the Wee Laddie. 

"I'm dining there again on Saturday, " volunteered Jack Herring. "If anyof you will promise not to make a disturbance, you can hang about on thePark side, underneath the shadow of the fence, and watch me go in. Myhansom will draw up at the door within a few minutes of eight. "

The Babe and the Poet agreed to undertake the test. 

"You won't mind our hanging round a little while, in case you're thrownout again?" asked the Babe. 

"Not in the least, so far as I am concerned, " replied Jack Herring. "Don't leave it too late and make your mother anxious. "

"It's true enough, " the Babe recounted afterwards. "The door was openedby a manservant and he went straight in. We walked up and down for halfan hour, and unless they put him out the back way, he's telling thetruth. "

"Did you hear him give his name?" asked Somerville, who was stroking hismoustache. 

"No, we were too far off, " explained the Babe. "But--I'll swear it wasJack--there couldn't be any mistake about that. "

"Perhaps not, " agreed Somerville the Briefless. 

Somerville the Briefless called at the offices of _Good Humour_, in CraneCourt, the following morning, and he also borrowed Miss Ramsbotham'sDebrett. 

"What's the meaning of it?" demanded the sub-editor. 

"Meaning of what?"

"This sudden interest of all you fellows in the British Peerage. "

"All of us?"

"Well, Herring was here last week, poring over that book for half anhour, with the _Morning Post_ spread out before him. Now you're doingthe same thing. "

"Ah! Jack Herring, was he? I thought as much. Don't talk about it, Tommy. I'll tell you later on. "

On the following Monday, the Briefless one announced to the Club that hehad received an invitation to dine at the Loveredges' on the followingWednesday. On Tuesday, the Briefless one entered the Club with a slowand stately step. Halting opposite old Goslin the porter, who hademerged from his box with the idea of discussing the Oxford and Cambridgeboat race, Somerville, removing his hat with a sweep of the arm, held itout in silence. Old Goslin, much astonished, took it mechanically, whereupon the Briefless one, shaking himself free from his Invernesscape, flung it lightly after the hat, and strolled on, not noticing thatold Goslin, unaccustomed to coats lightly and elegantly thrown at him, dropping the hat, had caught it on his head, and had been, in thelanguage of the prompt-book, "left struggling. " The Briefless one, entering the smoking-room, lifted a chair and let it fall again with acrash, and sitting down upon it, crossed his legs and rang the bell. 

"Ye're doing it verra weel, " remarked approvingly the Wee Laddie. "Ye'rejust fitted for it by nature. "

"Fitted for what?" demanded the Briefless one, waking up apparently froma dream. 

"For an Adelphi guest at eighteenpence the night, " assured him the WeeLaddie. "Ye're just splendid at it. "

The Briefless one, muttering that the worst of mixing with journalistswas that if you did not watch yourself, you fell into their ways, drankhis whisky in silence. Later, the Babe swore on a copy of _Sell'sAdvertising Guide_ that, crossing the Park, he had seen the Briefless oneleaning over the railings of Rotten Row, clad in a pair of new kidgloves, swinging a silver-headed cane. 

One morning towards the end of the week, Joseph Loveredge, looking twentyyears younger than when Peter had last seen him, dropped in at theeditorial office of _Good Humour_ and demanded of Peter Hope how he feltand what he thought of the present price of Emma Mines. 

Peter Hope's fear was that the gambling fever was spreading to allclasses of society. 

"I want you to dine with us on Sunday, " said Joseph Loveredge. "JackHerring will be there. You might bring Tommy with you. "

Peter Hope gulped down his astonishment and said he should be delighted;he thought that Tommy also was disengaged. "Mrs. Loveredge out of town, I presume?" questioned Peter Hope. 

"On the contrary, " replied Joseph Loveredge, "I want you to meet her. "

Joseph Loveredge removed a pile of books from one chair and placed themcarefully upon another, after which he went and stood before the fire. 

"Don't if you don't like, " said Joseph Loveredge; "but if you don't mind, you might call yourself, just for the evening--say, the Duke ofWarrington. "

"Say the what?" demanded Peter Hope. 

"The Duke of Warrington, " repeated Joey. "We are rather short of dukes. Tommy can be the Lady Adelaide, your daughter. "

"Don't be an ass!" said Peter Hope. 

"I'm not an ass, " assured him Joseph Loveredge. "He is wintering inEgypt. You have run back for a week to attend to business. There is noLady Adelaide, so that's quite simple. "

"But what in the name of--" began Peter Hope. 

"Don't you see what I'm driving at?" persisted Joey. "It was Jack's ideaat the beginning. I was frightened myself at first, but it is working toperfection. She sees you, and sees that you are a gentleman. When thetruth comes out--as, of course, it must later on--the laugh will beagainst her. "

"You think--you think that'll comfort her?" suggested Peter Hope. 

"It's the only way, and it is really wonderfully simple. We nevermention the aristocracy now--it would be like talking shop. We justenjoy ourselves. You, by the way, I met in connection with the movementfor rational dress. You are a bit of a crank, fond of frequentingBohemian circles. "

"I am risking something, I know, " continued Joey; "but it's worth it. Icouldn't have existed much longer. We go slowly, and are very careful. Jack is Lord Mount-Primrose, who has taken up with anti-vaccination andwho never goes out into Society. Somerville is Sir Francis Baldwin, thegreat authority on centipedes. The Wee Laddie is coming next week asLord Garrick, who married that dancing-girl, Prissy Something, andstarted a furniture shop in Bond Street. I had some difficulty at first. She wanted to send out paragraphs, but I explained that was only done byvulgar persons--that when the nobility came to you as friends, it wasconsidered bad taste. She is a dear girl, as I have always told you, with only one fault. A woman easier to deceive one could not wish for. Idon't myself see why the truth ever need come out--provided we keep ourheads. "

"Seems to me you've lost them already, " commented Peter; "you'reoverdoing it. "

"The more of us the better, " explained Joey; "we help each other. Besides, I particularly want you in it. There's a sort of superiorPickwickian atmosphere surrounding you that disarms suspicion. "

"You leave me out of it, " growled Peter. 

"See here, " laughed Joey; "you come as the Duke of Warrington, and bringTommy with you, and I'll write your City article. "

"For how long?" snapped Peter. Incorruptible City editors are not easilypicked up. 

"Oh, well, for as long as you like. "

"On that understanding, " agreed Peter, "I'm willing to make a fool ofmyself in your company. "

"You'll soon get used to it, " Joey told him; "eight o'clock, then, onSunday; plain evening dress. If you like to wear a bit of red ribbon inyour buttonhole, why, do so. You can get it at Evans', in CoventGarden. "

"And Tommy is the Lady--"

"Adelaide. Let her have a taste for literature, then she needn't weargloves. I know she hates them. " Joey turned to go. 

"Am I married?" asked Peter. 

Joey paused. "I should avoid all reference to your matrimonial affairsif I were you, " was Joey's advice. "You didn't come out of that businesstoo well. "

"Oh! as bad as that, was I? You don't think Mrs. Loveredge will objectto me?"

"I have asked her that. She's a dear, broad-minded girl. I've promisednot to leave you alone with Miss Montgomery, and Willis has hadinstructions not to let you mix your drinks. "

"I'd have liked to have been someone a trifle more respectable, " grumbledPeter. 

"We rather wanted a duke, " explained Joey, "and he was the only one thatfitted in all round. "

The dinner a was a complete success. Tommy, entering into the spirit ofthe thing, bought a new pair of open-work stockings and assumed a languiddrawl. Peter, who was growing forgetful, introduced her as the LadyAlexandra; it did not seem to matter, both beginning with an A. Shegreeted Lord Mount-Primrose as "Billy, " and asked affectionately afterhis mother. Joey told his raciest stories. The Duke of Warringtoncalled everybody by their Christian names, and seemed well acquaintedwith Bohemian society--a more amiable nobleman it would have beenimpossible to discover. The lady whose real name was not Miss Montgomerysat in speechless admiration. The hostess was the personification ofgracious devotion. 

Other little dinners, equally successful, followed. Joey'sacquaintanceship appeared to be confined exclusively to the highercircles of the British aristocracy--with one exception: that of a Germanbaron, a short, stout gentleman, who talked English well, but with anaccent, and who, when he desired to be impressive, laid his rightforefinger on the right side of his nose and thrust his whole faceforward. Mrs. Loveredge wondered why her husband had not introduced themsooner, but was too blissful to be suspicious. The Autolycus Club wasgradually changing its tone. Friends could no longer recognise oneanother by the voice. Every corner had its solitary student practisinghigh-class intonation. Members dropped into the habit of addressing oneanother as "dear chappie, " and, discarding pipes, took to cheap cigars. Many of the older _habitues_ resigned. 

All might have gone well to the end of time if only Mrs. Loveredge hadleft all social arrangements in the hands of her husband--had not soughtto aid his efforts. To a certain political garden-party, one day in theheight of the season, were invited Joseph Loveredge and Mrs. JosephLoveredge, his wife. Mr. Joseph Loveredge at the last moment foundhimself unable to attend. Mrs. Joseph Loveredge went alone, met therevarious members of the British aristocracy. Mrs. Joseph Loveredge, accustomed to friendship with the aristocracy, felt at her ease and wasnatural and agreeable. The wife of an eminent peer talked to her andliked her. It occurred to Mrs. Joseph Loveredge that this lady might beinduced to visit her house in Regent's Park, there to mingle with thoseof her own class. 

"Lord Mount-Primrose, the Duke of Warrington, and a few others will bedining with us on Sunday next, " suggested Mrs. Loveredge. "Will not youdo us the honour of coming? We are, of course, only simple folkourselves, but somehow people seem to like us. "

The wife of the eminent peer looked at Mrs. Loveredge, looked round thegrounds, looked at Mrs. Loveredge again, and said she would like to come. Mrs. Joseph Loveredge intended at first to tell her husband of hersuccess, but a little devil entering into her head and whispering to herthat it would be amusing, she resolved to keep it as a surprise, to besprung upon him at eight o'clock on Sunday. The surprise proved all shecould have hoped for. 

The Duke of Warrington, having journalistic matters to discuss withJoseph Loveredge, arrived at half-past seven, wearing on his shirt-fronta silver star, purchased in Eagle Street the day before for eight-and-six. There accompanied him the Lady Alexandra, wearing the identicalruby necklace that every night for the past six months, and twice onSaturdays, "John Strongheart" had been falsely accused of stealing. LordGarrick, having picked up his wife (Miss Ramsbotham) outside the MotherRedcap, arrived with her on foot at a quarter to eight. LordMount-Primrose, together with Sir Francis Baldwin, dashed up in a hansomat seven-fifty. His Lordship, having lost the toss, paid the fare. TheHon. Harry Sykes (commonly called "the Babe") was ushered in five minuteslater. The noble company assembled in the drawing-room chatted blithelywhile waiting for dinner to be announced. The Duke of Warrington wastelling an anecdote about a cat, which nobody appeared to believe. LordMount-Primrose desired to know whether by any chance it might be the sameanimal that every night at half-past nine had been in the habit ofclimbing up his Grace's railings and knocking at his Grace's door. TheHonourable Harry was saying that, speaking of cats, he once had a sort ofterrier--when the door was thrown open and Willis announced the Lady MarySutton. 

Mr. Joseph Loveredge, who was sitting near the fire, rose up. Lord Mount-Primrose, who was standing near the piano, sat down. The Lady MarySutton paused in the doorway. Mrs. Loveredge crossed the room to greether. 

"Let me introduce you to my husband, " said Mrs. Loveredge. "Joey, mydear, the Lady Mary Sutton. I met the Lady Mary at the O'Meyers' theother day, and she was good enough to accept my invitation. I forgot totell you. "

Mr. Loveredge said he was delighted; after which, although as a rule achatty man, he seemed to have nothing else to say. And a silence fell. 

Somerville the Briefless--till then. That evening has always beenreckoned the starting-point of his career. Up till then nobody thoughthe had much in him--walked up and held out his hand. 

"You don't remember me, Lady Mary, " said the Briefless one. "I met yousome years ago; we had a most interesting conversation--Sir FrancisBaldwin. "

The Lady Mary stood for a moment trying apparently to recollect. She wasa handsome, fresh-complexioned woman of about forty, with frank, agreeable eyes. The Lady Mary glanced at Lord Garrick, who was talkingrapidly to Lord Mount-Primrose, who was not listening, and who could nothave understood even if he had been, Lord Garrick, without being aware ofit, having dropped into broad Scotch. From him the Lady Mary glanced ather hostess, and from her hostess to her host. 

The Lady Mary took the hand held out to her. "Of course, " said the LadyMary; "how stupid of me! It was the day of my own wedding, too. Youreally must forgive me. We talked of quite a lot of things. I remembernow. "

Mrs. Loveredge, who prided herself upon maintaining old-fashionedcourtesies, proceeded to introduce the Lady Mary to her fellow-guests, alittle surprised that her ladyship appeared to know so few of them. Herladyship's greeting of the Duke of Warrington was accompanied, it wasremarked, by a somewhat curious smile. To the Duke of Warrington'sdaughter alone did the Lady Mary address remark. 

"My dear, " said the Lady Mary, "how you have grown since last we met!"

The announcement of dinner, as everybody felt, came none too soon. 

It was not a merry feast. Joey told but one story; he told it threetimes, and twice left out the point. Lord Mount-Primrose took siftedsugar with _pate de foie gras_ and ate it with a spoon. Lord Garrick, talking a mixture of Scotch and English, urged his wife to give uphousekeeping and take a flat in Gower Street, which, as he pointed out, was central. She could have her meals sent in to her and so avoid alltrouble. The Lady Alexandra's behaviour appeared to Mrs. Loveredge notaltogether well-bred. An eccentric young noblewoman Mrs. Loveredge hadalways found her, but wished on this occasion that she had been a littleless eccentric. Every few minutes the Lady Alexandra buried her face inher serviette, and shook and rocked, emitting stifled sounds, apparentlythose of acute physical pain. Mrs. Loveredge hoped she was not feelingill, but the Lady Alexandra appeared incapable of coherent reply. Twiceduring the meal the Duke of Warrington rose from the table and beganwandering round the room; on each occasion, asked what he wanted, hadreplied meekly that he was merely looking for his snuff-box, and had satdown again. The only person who seemed to enjoy the dinner was the LadyMary Sutton. 

The ladies retired upstairs into the drawing-room. Mrs. Loveredge, breaking a long silence, remarked it as unusual that no sound ofmerriment reached them from the dining-room. The explanation was thatthe entire male portion of the party, on being left to themselves, hadimmediately and in a body crept on tiptoe into Joey's study, which, fortunately, happened to be on the ground floor. Joey, unlocking thebookcase, had taken out his Debrett, but appeared incapable ofunderstanding it. Sir Francis Baldwin had taken it from his unresistinghands; the remaining aristocracy huddled themselves into a corner andwaited in silence. 

"I think I've got it all clearly, " announced Sir Francis Baldwin, afterfive minutes, which to the others had been an hour. "Yes, I don't thinkI'm making any mistake. She's the daughter of the Duke of Truro, marriedin '53 the Duke of Warrington, at St. Peter's, Eaton Square; gave birthin '55 to a daughter, the Lady Grace Alexandra Warberton Sutton, whichmakes the child just thirteen. In '63 divorced the Duke of Warrington. Lord Mount-Primrose, so far as I can make out, must be her second cousin. I appear to have married her in '66 at Hastings. It doesn't seem to methat we could have got together a homelier little party to meet her evenif we had wanted to. "

Nobody spoke; nobody had anything particularly worth saying. The dooropened, and the Lady Alexandra (otherwise Tommy) entered the room. 

"Isn't it time, " suggested the Lady Alexandra, "that some of you cameupstairs?"

"I was thinking myself, " explained Joey, the host, with a grim smile, "itwas about time that I went out and drowned myself. The canal is handy. "

"Put it off till to-morrow, " Tommy advised him. "I have asked herladyship to give me a lift home, and she has promised to do so. She isevidently a woman with a sense of humour. Wait till after I have had atalk with her. "

Six men, whispering at the same time, were prepared with advice; butTommy was not taking advice. 

"Come upstairs, all of you, " insisted Tommy, "and make yourselvesagreeable. She's going in a quarter of an hour. "

Six silent men, the host leading, the two husbands bringing up the rear, ascended the stairs, each with the sensation of being twice his usualweight. Six silent men entered the drawing-room and sat down on chairs. Six silent men tried to think of something interesting to say. 

Miss Ramsbotham--it was that or hysterics, as she afterwardsexplained--stifling a sob, opened the piano. But the only thing shecould remember was "Champagne Charlie is my Name, " a song then popular inthe halls. Five men, when she had finished, begged her to go on. MissRamsbotham, speaking in a shrill falsetto, explained it was the only tuneshe knew. Four of them begged her to play it again. Miss Ramsbothamplayed it a second time with involuntary variations. 

The Lady Mary's carriage was announced by the imperturbable Willis. Theparty, with the exception of the Lady Mary and the hostess, suppressedwith difficulty an inclination to burst into a cheer. The Lady Marythanked Mrs. Loveredge for a most interesting evening, and beckoned Tommyto accompany her. With her disappearance, a wild hilarity, uncanny inits suddenness, took possession of the remaining guests. 

A few days later, the Lady Mary's carriage again drew up before thelittle house in Regent's Park. Mrs. Loveredge, fortunately, was at home. The carriage remained waiting for quite a long time. Mrs. Loveredge, after it was gone, locked herself in her own room. The under-housemaidreported to the kitchen that, passing the door, she had detected soundsindicative of strong emotion. 

Through what ordeal Joseph Loveredge passed was never known. For a fewweeks the Autolycus Club missed him. Then gradually, as aided by Timethey have a habit of doing, things righted themselves. Joseph Loveredgereceived his old friends; his friends received Joseph Loveredge. Mrs. Loveredge, as a hostess, came to have only one failing--a marked coldnessof demeanour towards all people with titles, whenever introduced to her. 

STORY THE SIXTH--"The Babe" applies for Shares

People said of the new journal, _Good Humour_--people of taste andjudgment, that it was the brightest, the cleverest, the most literarypenny weekly that ever had been offered to the public. This made PeterHope, editor and part-proprietor, very happy. William Clodd, businessmanager, and also part-proprietor, it left less elated. 

"Must be careful, " said William Clodd, "that we don't make it too clever. Happy medium, that's the ideal. "

People said--people of taste and judgment, that _Good Humour_ was moreworthy of support than all the other penny weeklies put together. Peopleof taste and judgment even went so far, some of them, as to buy it. PeterHope, looking forward, saw fame and fortune coming to him. 

William Clodd, looking round about him, said--

"Doesn't it occur to you, Guv'nor, that we're getting this thing just atrifle too high class?"

"What makes you think that?" demanded Peter Hope. 

"Our circulation, for one thing, " explained Clodd. "The returns for lastmonth--"

"I'd rather you didn't mention them, if you don't mind, " interruptedPeter Hope; "somehow, hearing the actual figures always depresses me. "

"Can't say I feel inspired by them myself, " admitted Clodd. 

"It will come, " said Peter Hope, "it will come in time. We must educatethe public up to our level. "

"If there is one thing, so far as I have noticed, " said William Clodd, "that the public are inclined to pay less for than another, it is forbeing educated. "

"What are we to do?" asked Peter Hope. 

"What you want, " answered William Clodd, "is an office-boy. "

"How will our having an office-boy increase our circulation?" demandedPeter Hope. "Besides, it was agreed that we could do without one for thefirst year. Why suggest more expense?"

"I don't mean an ordinary office-boy, " explained Clodd. "I mean the sortof boy that I rode with in the train going down to Stratford yesterday. "

"What was there remarkable about him?"

"Nothing. He was reading the current number of the _Penny Novelist_. Over two hundred thousand people buy it. He is one of them. He told meso. When he had done with it, he drew from his pocket a copy of the_Halfpenny Joker_--they guarantee a circulation of seventy thousand. Hesat and chuckled over it until we got to Bow. "

"But--"

"You wait a minute. I'm coming to the explanation. That boy representsthe reading public. I talked to him. The papers he likes best are thepapers that have the largest sales. He never made a single mistake. Theothers--those of them he had seen--he dismissed as 'rot. ' What he likesis what the great mass of the journal-buying public likes. Please him--Itook his name and address, and he is willing to come to us for eightshillings a week--and you please the people that buy. Not the peoplethat glance through a paper when it is lying on the smoking-room table, and tell you it is damned good, but the people that plank down theirpenny. That's the sort we want. "

Peter Hope, able editor, with ideals, was shocked--indignant. WilliamClodd, business man, without ideals, talked figures. 

"There's the advertiser to be thought of, " persisted Clodd. "I don'tpretend to be a George Washington, but what's the use of telling liesthat sound like lies, even to one's self while one's telling them? Giveme a genuine sale of twenty thousand, and I'll undertake, withoutcommitting myself, to convey an impression of forty. But when the actualfigures are under eight thousand--well, it hampers you, if you happen tohave a conscience. 

"Give them every week a dozen columns of good, sound literature, "continued Clodd insinuatingly, "but wrap it up in twenty-four columns ofjam. It's the only way they'll take it, and you will be doing themgood--educating them without their knowing it. All powder and no jam!Well, they don't open their mouths, that's all. "

Clodd was a man who knew how to get his way. Flipp--spelledPhilip--Tweetel arrived in due course of time at 23, Crane Court, ostensibly to take up the position of _Good Humour's_ office-boy; inreality, and without his being aware of it, to act as its literarytaster. Stories in which Flipp became absorbed were accepted. Petergroaned, but contented himself with correcting only their grossergrammatical blunders; the experiment should be tried in all good faith. Humour at which Flipp laughed was printed. Peter tried to ease hisconscience by increasing his subscription to the fund for destitutecompositors, but only partially succeeded. Poetry that brought a tear tothe eye of Flipp was given leaded type. People of taste and judgmentsaid _Good Humour_ had disappointed them. Its circulation, slowly butsteadily, increased. 

"See!" cried the delighted Clodd; "told you so!"

"It's sad to think--" began Peter. 

"Always is, " interrupted Clodd cheerfully. "Moral--don't think toomuch. "

"Tell you what we'll do, " added Clodd. "We'll make a fortune out of thispaper. Then when we can afford to lose a little money, we'll launch apaper that shall appeal only to the intellectual portion of the public. Meanwhile--"

A squat black bottle with a label attached, standing on the desk, arrested Clodd's attention. 

"When did this come?" asked Clodd. 

"About an hour ago, " Peter told him. 

"Any order with it?"

"I think so. " Peter searched for and found a letter addressed to"William Clodd, Esq. , Advertising Manager, _Good Humour_. " Clodd tore itopen, hastily devoured it. 

"Not closed up yet, are you?"

"No, not till eight o'clock. "

"Good! I want you to write me a par. Do it now, then you won't forgetit. For the 'Walnuts and Wine' column. "

Peter sat down, headed a sheet of paper: 'For W. And W. Col. '

"What is it?" questioned Peter--"something to drink?"

"It's a sort of port, " explained Clodd, "that doesn't get into yourhead. "

"You consider that an advantage?" queried Peter. 

"Of course. You can drink more of it. "

Peter continued to write: 'Possesses all the qualities of an old vintageport, without those deleterious properties--' "I haven't tasted it, Clodd, " hinted Peter. 

"That's all right--I have. "

"And was it good?"

"Splendid stuff. Say it's 'delicious and invigorating. ' They'll be sureto quote that. "

Peter wrote on: 'Personally I have found it delicious and--' Peter leftoff writing. "I really think, Clodd, I ought to taste it. You see, I ampersonally recommending it. "

"Finish that par. Let me have it to take round to the printers. Thenput the bottle in your pocket. Take it home and make a night of it. "

Clodd appeared to be in a mighty hurry. Now, this made Peter only themore suspicious. The bottle was close to his hand. Clodd tried tointercept him, but was not quick enough. 

"You're not used to temperance drinks, " urged Clodd. "Your palate is notaccustomed to them. "

"I can tell whether it's 'delicious' or not, surely?" pleaded Peter, whohad pulled out the cork. 

"It's a quarter-page advertisement for thirteen weeks. Put it down anddon't be a fool!" urged Clodd. 

"I'm going to put it down, " laughed Peter, who was fond of his joke. Peter poured out half a tumblerful, and drank--some of it. 

"Like it?" demanded Clodd, with a savage grin. 

"You are sure--you are sure it was the right bottle?" gasped Peter. 

"Bottle's all right, " Clodd assured him. "Try some more. Judge itfairly. "

Peter ventured on another sip. "You don't think they would be satisfiedif I recommended it as a medicine?" insinuated Peter--"something to haveabout the house in case of accidental poisoning?"

"Better go round and suggest the idea to them yourself. I've done withit. " Clodd took up his hat. 

"I'm sorry--I'm very sorry, " sighed Peter. "But I couldn'tconscientiously--"

Clodd put down his hat again with a bang. "Oh! confound that conscienceof yours! Don't it ever think of your creditors? What's the use of myworking out my lungs for you, when all you do is to hamper me at everystep?"

"Wouldn't it be better policy, " urged Peter, "to go for the better classof advertiser, who doesn't ask you for this sort of thing?"

"Go for him!" snorted Clodd. "Do you think I don't go for him? They arejust sheep. Get one, you get the lot. Until you've got the one, theothers won't listen to you. "

"That's true, " mused Peter. "I spoke to Wilkinson, of Kingsley's, myself. He advised me to try and get Landor's. He thought that if Icould get an advertisement out of Landor, he might persuade his people togive us theirs. "

"And if you had gone to Landor, he would have promised you theirsprovided you got Kingsley's. "

"They will come, " thought hopeful Peter. "We are going up steadily. Theywill come with a rush. "

"They had better come soon, " thought Clodd. "The only things coming witha rush just now are bills. "

"Those articles of young McTear's attracted a good deal of attention, "expounded Peter. "He has promised to write me another series. "

"Jowett is the one to get hold of, " mused Clodd. "Jowett, all the othersfollow like a flock of geese waddling after the old gander. If only wecould get hold of Jowett, the rest would be easy. "

Jowett was the proprietor of the famous Marble Soap. Jowett spent onadvertising every year a quarter of a million, it was said. Jowett wasthe stay and prop of periodical literature. New papers that secured theMarble Soap advertisement lived and prospered; the new paper to which itwas denied languished and died. Jowett, and how to get hold of him;Jowett, and how to get round him, formed the chief topic of discussion atthe council-board of most new papers, _Good Humour_ amongst the number. 

"I have heard, " said Miss Ramsbotham, who wrote the Letter to Clorindathat filled each week the last two pages of _Good Humour_, and that toldClorinda, who lived secluded in the country, the daily history of thehighest class society, among whom Miss Ramsbotham appeared to live andhave her being; who they were, and what they wore, the wise and otherwisethings they did--"I have heard, " said Miss Ramsbotham one morning, Jowettbeing as usual the subject under debate, "that the old man is susceptibleto female influence. "

"What I have always thought, " said Clodd. "A lady advertising-agentmight do well. At all events, they couldn't kick her out. "

"They might in the end, " thought Peter. "Female door-porters wouldbecome a profession for muscular ladies if ever the idea took root. "

"The first one would get a good start, anyhow, " thought Clodd. 

The sub-editor had pricked up her ears. Once upon a time, long ago, thesub-editor had succeeded, when all other London journalists had failed, in securing an interview with a certain great statesman. The sub-editorhad never forgotten this--nor allowed anyone else to forget it. 

"I believe I could get it for you, " said the sub-editor. 

The editor and the business-manager both spoke together. They spoke withdecision and with emphasis. 

"Why not?" said the sub-editor. "When nobody else could get at him, itwas I who interviewed Prince--"

"We've heard all about that, " interrupted the business-manager. "If Ihad been your father at the time, you would never have done it. "

"How could I have stopped her?" retorted Peter Hope. "She never said aword to me. "

"You could have kept an eye on her. "

"Kept an eye on her! When you've got a girl of your own, you'll knowmore about them. "

"When I have, " asserted Clodd, "I'll manage her. "

"We know all about bachelor's children, " sneered Peter Hope, the editor. 

"You leave it to me. I'll have it for you before the end of the week, "crowed the sub-editor. 

"If you do get it, " returned Clodd, "I shall throw it out, that's all. "

"You said yourself a lady advertising-agent would be a good idea, " thesub-editor reminded him. 

"So she might be, " returned Clodd; "but she isn't going to be you. "

"Why not?"

"Because she isn't, that's why. "

"But if--"

"See you at the printer's at twelve, " said Clodd to Peter, and went outsuddenly. 

"Well, I think he's an idiot, " said the sub-editor. 

"I do not often, " said the editor, "but on this point I agree with him. Cadging for advertisements isn't a woman's work. "

"But what is the difference between--"

"All the difference in the world, " thought the editor. 

"You don't know what I was going to say, " returned his sub. 

"I know the drift of it, " asserted the editor. 

"But you let me--"

"I know I do--a good deal too much. I'm going to turn over a new leaf. "

"All I propose to do--"

"Whatever it is, you're not going to do it, " declared the chief. "Shallbe back at half-past twelve, if anybody comes. "

"It seems to me--" But Peter was gone. 

"Just like them all, " wailed the sub-editor. "They can't argue; when youexplain things to them, they go out. It does make me so mad!"

Miss Ramsbotham laughed. "You are a downtrodden little girl, Tommy. "

"As if I couldn't take care of myself!" Tommy's chin was high up in theair. 

"Cheer up, " suggested Miss Ramsbotham. "Nobody ever tells me not to doanything. I would change with you if I could. "

"I'd have walked into that office and have had that advertisement out ofold Jowett in five minutes, I know I would, " bragged Tommy. "I canalways get on with old men. "

"Only with the old ones?" queried Miss Ramsbotham. 

The door opened. "Anybody in?" asked the face of Johnny Bulstrode, appearing in the jar. 

"Can't you see they are?" snapped Tommy. 

"Figure of speech, " explained Johnny Bulstrode, commonly called "theBabe, " entering and closing the door behind him. 

"What do you want?" demanded the sub-editor. 

"Nothing in particular, " replied the Babe. 

"Wrong time of the day to come for it, half-past eleven in the morning, "explained the sub-editor. 

"What's the matter with you?" asked the Babe. 

"Feeling very cross, " confessed the sub-editor. 

The childlike face of the Babe expressed sympathetic inquiry. 

"We are very indignant, " explained Miss Ramsbotham, "because we are notallowed to rush off to Cannon Street and coax an advertisement out of oldJowett, the soap man. We feel sure that if we only put on our best hat, he couldn't possibly refuse us. "

"No coaxing required, " thought the sub-editor. "Once get in to see theold fellow and put the actual figures before him, he would clamour tocome in. "

"Won't he see Clodd?" asked the Babe. 

"Won't see anybody on behalf of anything new just at present, apparently, " answered Miss Ramsbotham. "It was my fault. I was foolishenough to repeat that I had heard he was susceptible to female charm. They say it was Mrs. Sarkitt that got the advertisement for _The Lamp_out of him. But, of course, it may not be true. "

"Wish I was a soap man and had got advertisements to give away, " sighedthe Babe. 

"Wish you were, " agreed the sub-editor. 

"You should have them all, Tommy. "

"My name, " corrected him the sub-editor, "is Miss Hope. "

"I beg your pardon, " said the Babe. "I don't know how it is, but onegets into the way of calling you Tommy. "

"I will thank you, " said the sub-editor, "to get out of it. "

"I am sorry, " said the Babe. 

"Don't let it occur again, " said the sub-editor. 

The Babe stood first on one leg and then on the other, but nothing seemedto come of it. "Well, " said the Babe, "I just looked in, that's all. Nothing I can do for you?"

"Nothing, " thanked him the sub-editor. 

"Good morning, " said the Babe. 

"Good morning, " said the sub-editor. 

The childlike face of the Babe wore a chastened expression as it slowlydescended the stairs. Most of the members of the Autolycus Club lookedin about once a day to see if they could do anything for Tommy. Some ofthem had luck. Only the day before, Porson--a heavy, most uninterestingman--had been sent down all the way to Plaistow to inquire after thewounded hand of a machine-boy. Young Alexander, whose poetry some peoplecould not even understand, had been commissioned to search London for asecond-hand edition of Maitland's _Architecture_. Since a fortnightnearly now, when he had been sent out to drive away an organ that wouldnot go, Johnny had been given nothing. 

Johnny turned the corner into Fleet Street feeling bitter with his lot. Aboy carrying a parcel stumbled against him. 

"Beg yer pardon--" the small boy looked up into Johnny's face, "miss, "added the small boy, dodging the blow and disappearing into the crowd. 

The Babe, by reason of his childlike face, was accustomed to insults ofthis character, but to-day it especially irritated him. Why at twenty-two could he not grow even a moustache? Why was he only five feet fiveand a half? Why had Fate cursed him with a pink-and-white complexion, sothat the members of his own club had nicknamed him "the Babe, " whilestreet-boys as they passed pleaded with him for a kiss? Why was his veryvoice, a flute-like alto, more suitable--Suddenly an idea sprang to lifewithin his brain. The idea grew. Passing a barber's shop, Johnny wentin. 

"'Air cut, sir?" remarked the barber, fitting a sheet round Johnny'sneck. 

"No, shave, " corrected Johnny. 

"Beg pardon, " said the barber, substituting a towel for the sheet. "Doyou shave up, sir?" later demanded the barber. 

"Yes, " answered Johnny. 

"Pleasant weather we are having, " said the barber. 

"Very, " assented Johnny. 

From the barber's, Johnny went to Stinchcombe's, the costumier's, inDrury Lane. 

"I am playing in a burlesque, " explained the Babe. "I want you to rig meout completely as a modern girl. "

"Peeth o' luck!" said the shopman. "Goth the very bundle for you. Juthcome in. "

"I shall want everything, " explained the Babe, "from the boots to thehat; stays, petticoats--the whole bag of tricks. "

"Regular troutheau there, " said the shopman, emptying out the canvas bagupon the counter. "Thry 'em on. "

The Babe contented himself with trying on the costume and the boots. 

"Juth made for you!" said the shopman. 

A little loose about the chest, suggested the Babe. 

"Thath's all right, " said the shopman. "Couple o' thmall towelths, allthath's wanted. "

"You don't think it too showy?" queried the Babe. 

"Thowy? Sthylish, thath's all. "

"You are sure everything's here?"

"Everythinkth there. 'Thept the bit o' meat inthide, " assured him theshopman. 

The Babe left a deposit, and gave his name and address. The shopmanpromised the things should be sent round within an hour. The Babe, whohad entered into the spirit of the thing, bought a pair of gloves and asmall reticule, and made his way to Bow Street. 

"I want a woman's light brown wig, " said the Babe to Mr. Cox, theperruquier. 

Mr. Cox tried on two. The deceptive appearance of the second Mr. Coxpronounced as perfect. 

"Looks more natural on you than your own hair, blessed if it doesn't!"said Mr. Cox. 

The wig also was promised within the hour. The spirit of completenessdescended upon the Babe. On his way back to his lodgings in Great QueenStreet, he purchased a ladylike umbrella and a veil. 

Now, a quarter of an hour after Johnny Bulstrode had made his exit by thedoor of Mr. Stinchcombe's shop, one, Harry Bennett, actor and member ofthe Autolycus Club, pushed it open and entered. The shop was empty. Harry Bennett hammered with his stick and waited. A piled-up bundle ofclothes lay upon the counter; a sheet of paper, with a name and addressscrawled across it, rested on the bundle. Harry Bennett, given to idlecuriosity, approached and read the same. Harry Bennett, with his stick, poked the bundle, scattering its items over the counter. 

"Donth do thath!" said the shopman, coming up. "Juth been putting 'emtogether. "

"What the devil, " said Harry Bennett, "is Johnny Bulstrode going to dowith that rig-out?"

"How thoud I know?" answered the shopman. "Private theathricals, Isuppoth. Friend o' yourth?"

"Yes, " replied Harry Bennett. "By Jove! he ought to make a good girl. Should like to see it!"

"Well arthk him for a ticket. Donth make 'em dirty, " suggested theshopman. 

"I must, " said Harry Bennett, and talked about his own affairs. 

The rig-out and the wig did not arrive at Johnny's lodgings within thehour as promised, but arrived there within three hours, which was as muchas Johnny had expected. It took Johnny nearly an hour to dress, but atlast he stood before the plate-glass panel of the wardrobe transformed. Johnny had reason to be pleased with the result. A tall, handsome girllooked back at him out of the glass--a little showily dressed, perhaps, but decidedly _chic_. 

"Wonder if I ought to have a cloak, " mused Johnny, as a ray of sunshine, streaming through the window, fell upon the image in the glass. "Well, anyhow, I haven't, " thought Johnny, as the sunlight died away again, "soit's no good thinking about it. "

Johnny seized his reticule and his umbrella and opened cautiously thedoor. Outside all was silent. Johnny stealthily descended; in thepassage paused again. Voices sounded from the basement. Feeling like anescaped burglar, Johnny slipped the latch of the big door and peeped out. A policeman, pasting, turned and looked at him. Johnny hastily drew backand closed the door again. Somebody was ascending from the kitchen. Johnny, caught between two terrors, nearer to the front door than to thestairs, having no time, chose the street. It seemed to Johnny that thestreet was making for him. A woman came hurriedly towards him. What wasshe going to say to him? What should he answer her? To his surprise shepassed him, hardly noticing him. Wondering what miracle had saved him, he took a few steps forward. A couple of young clerks coming up frombehind turned to look at him, but on encountering his answering stare ofangry alarm, appeared confused and went their way. It began to dawn uponhim that mankind was less discerning than he had feared. Gaining courageas he proceeded, he reached Holborn. Here the larger crowd swept aroundhim indifferent. 

"I beg your pardon, " said Johnny, coming into collision with a stoutgentleman. 

"My fault, " replied the stout gentleman, as, smiling, he picked up hisdamaged hat. 

"I beg your pardon, " repeated Johnny again two minutes later, collidingwith a tall young lady. 

"Should advise you to take something for that squint of yours, " remarkedthe tall young lady with severity. 

"What's the matter with me?" thought Johnny. "Seems to be a sort ofmist--" The explanation flashed across him. "Of course, " said Johnny tohimself, "it's this confounded veil!"

Johnny decided to walk to the Marble Soap offices. "I'll be more used tothe hang of things by the time I get there if I walk, " thought Johnny. "Hope the old beggar's in. "

In Newgate Street, Johnny paused and pressed his hands against his chest. "Funny sort of pain I've got, " thought Johnny. "Wonder if I should shockthem if I went in somewhere for a drop of brandy?"

"It don't get any better, " reflected Johnny, with some alarm, on reachingthe corner of Cheapside. "Hope I'm not going to be ill. Whatever--" Theexplanation came to him. "Of course, it's these damned stays! No wondergirls are short-tempered, at times. "

At the offices of the Marble Soap, Johnny was treated with markedcourtesy. Mr. Jowett was out, was not expected back till five o'clock. Would the lady wait, or would she call again? The lady decided, now shewas there, to wait. Would the lady take the easy-chair? Would the ladyhave the window open or would she have it shut? Had the lady seen _TheTimes_?

"Or the _Ha'penny Joker_?" suggested a junior clerk, who thereupon waspromptly sent back to his work. 

Many of the senior clerks had occasion to pass through the waiting-room. Two of the senior clerks held views about the weather which they appearedwishful to express at length. Johnny began to enjoy himself. This thingwas going to be good fun. By the time the slamming of doors and thehurrying of feet announced the advent of the chief, Johnny was lookingforward to his interview. 

It was briefer and less satisfactory than he had anticipated. Mr. Jowettwas very busy--did not as a rule see anybody in the afternoon; but ofcourse, a lady--"Would Miss--"

"Montgomery. "

"Would Miss Montgomery inform Mr. Jowett what it was he might have thepleasure of doing for her?"

Miss Montgomery explained. 

Mr. Jowett seemed half angry, half amused. 

"Really, " said Mr. Jowett, "this is hardly playing the game. Against ourfellow-men we can protect ourselves, but if the ladies are going toattack us--really it isn't fair. "

Miss Montgomery pleaded. 

"I'll think it over, " was all that Mr. Jowett could be made to promise. "Look me up again. "

"When?" asked Miss Montgomery. 

"What's to-day?--Thursday. Say Monday. " Mr. Jowett rang the bell. "Takemy advice, " said the old gentleman, laying a fatherly hand on Johnny'sshoulder, "leave business to us men. You are a handsome girl. You cando better for yourself than this. "

A clerk entered, Johnny rose. 

"On Monday next, then, " Johnny reminded him. 

"At four o'clock, " agreed Mr. Jowett. "Good afternoon. "

Johnny went out feeling disappointed, and yet, as he told himself, hehadn't done so badly. Anyhow, there was nothing for it but to wait tillMonday. Now he would go home, change his clothes, and get some dinner. He hailed a hansom. 

"Number twenty-eight--no. Stop at the Queen's Street corner of Lincoln'sInn Fields, " Johnny directed the man. 

"Quite right, miss, " commented the cabman pleasantly. "Corner'sbest--saves all talk. "

"What do you mean?" demanded Johnny. 

"No offence, miss, " answered the man. "We was all young once. "

Johnny climbed in. At the corner of Queen Street and Lincoln's InnFields, Johnny got out. Johnny, who had been pondering other matters, put his hand instinctively to where, speaking generally, his pocketshould have been; then recollected himself. 

"Let me see, did I think to bring any money out with me, or did I not?"mused Johnny, as he stood upon the kerb. 

"Look in the ridicule, miss, " suggested the cabman. 

Johnny looked. It was empty. 

"Perhaps I put it in my pocket, " thought Johnny. 

The cabman hitched his reins to the whip-socket and leant back. 

"It's somewhere about here, I know, I saw it, " Johnny told himself. "Sorry to keep you waiting, " Johnny added aloud to the cabman. 

"Don't you worry about that, miss, " replied the cabman civilly; "we areused to it. A shilling a quarter of an hour is what we charge. "

"Of all the damned silly tricks!" muttered Johnny to himself. 

Two small boys and a girl carrying a baby paused, interested. 

"Go away, " told them the cabman. "You'll have troubles of your own oneday. "

The urchins moved a few steps further, then halted again and were joinedby a slatternly woman and another boy. 

"Got it!" cried Johnny, unable to suppress his delight as his handslipped through a fold. The lady with the baby, without preciselyknowing why, set up a shrill cheer. Johnny's delight died away; itwasn't the pocket-hole. Short of taking the skirt off and turning itinside out, it didn't seem to Johnny that he ever would find that pocket. 

Then in that moment of despair he came across it accidentally. It was asempty as the reticule!

"I am sorry, " said Johnny to the cabman, "but I appear to have come outwithout my purse. "

The cabman said he had heard that tale before, and was makingpreparations to descend. The crowd, now numbering eleven, lookedhopeful. It occurred to Johnny later that he might have offered hisumbrella to the cabman; at least it would have fetched the eighteenpence. One thinks of these things afterwards. The only idea that occurred tohim at the moment was that of getting home. 

"'Ere, 'old my 'orse a minute, one of yer, " shouted the cabman. 

Half a dozen willing hands seized the dozing steed and roused it intomadness. 

"Hi! stop 'er!" roared the cabman. 

"She's down!" shouted the excited crowd. 

"Tripped over 'er skirt, " explained the slatternly woman. "They do'amper you. "

"No, she's not. She's up again!" vociferated a delighted plumber, with asounding slap on his own leg. "Gor blimy, if she ain't a good 'un!"

Fortunately the Square was tolerably clear and Johnny a good runner. Holding now his skirt and petticoat high in his left hand, Johnny movedacross the Square at the rate of fifteen miles an hour. A butcher's boysprang in front of him with arms held out to stop him. The thing thatfor the next three months annoyed that butcher boy most was hearingshouted out after him "Yah! who was knocked down and run over by a lidy?"By the time Johnny reached the Strand, _via_ Clement's Inn, the hue andcry was far behind. Johnny dropped his skirts and assumed a more girlishpace. Through Bow Street and Long Acre he reached Great Queen Street insafety. Upon his own doorstep he began to laugh. His afternoon'sexperience had been amusing; still, on the whole, he wasn't sorry it wasover. One can have too much even of the best of jokes. Johnny rang thebell. 

The door opened. Johnny would have walked in had not a big, raw-bonedwoman barred his progress. 

"What do you want?" demanded the raw-boned woman. 

"Want to come in, " explained Johnny. 

"What do you want to come in for?"

This appeared to Johnny a foolish question. On reflection he saw thesense of it. This raw-boned woman was not Mrs. Pegg, his landlady. Somefriend of hers, he supposed. 

"It's all right, " said Johnny, "I live here. Left my latchkey at home, that's all. "

"There's no females lodging here, " declared the raw-boned lady. "Andwhat's more, there's going to be none. "

All this was very vexing. Johnny, in his joy at reaching his owndoorstep, had not foreseen these complications. Now it would benecessary to explain things. He only hoped the story would not get roundto the fellows at the club. 

"Ask Mrs. Pegg to step up for a minute, " requested Johnny. 

"Not at 'ome, " explained the raw-boned lady. 

"Not--not at home?"

"Gone to Romford, if you wish to know, to see her mother. "

"Gone to Romford?"

"I said Romford, didn't I?" retorted the raw-boned lady, tartly. 

"What--what time do you expect her in?"

"Sunday evening, six o'clock, " replied the raw-boned lady. 

Johnny looked at the raw-boned lady, imagined himself telling the raw-boned lady the simple, unvarnished truth, and the raw-boned lady's utterdisbelief of every word of it. An inspiration came to his aid. 

"I am Mr. Bulstrode's sister, " said Johnny meekly; "he's expecting me. "

"Thought you said you lived here?" reminded him the raw-boned lady. 

"I meant that he lived here, " replied poor Johnny still more meekly. "Hehas the second floor, you know. "

"I know, " replied the raw-boned lady. "Not in just at present. "

"Not in?"

"Went out at three o'clock. "

"I'll go up to his room and wait for him, " said Johnny. 

"No, you won't, " said the raw-boned lady. 

For an instant it occurred to Johnny to make a dash for it, but the raw-boned lady looked both formidable and determined. There would be a bigdisturbance--perhaps the police called in. Johnny had often wanted tosee his name in print: in connection with this affair he somehow felt hedidn't. 

"Do let me in, " Johnny pleaded; "I have nowhere else to go. "

"You have a walk and cool yourself, " suggested the raw-boned lady. "Don'texpect he will be long. "

"But, you see--"

The raw-boned lady slammed the door. 

Outside a restaurant in Wellington Street, from which proceeded savouryodours, Johnny paused and tried to think. 

"What the devil did I do with that umbrella? I had it--no, I didn't. Must have dropped it, I suppose, when that silly ass tried to stop me. ByJove! I am having luck!"

Outside another restaurant in the Strand Johnny paused again. "How am Ito live till Sunday night? Where am I to sleep? If I telegraphhome--damn it! how can I telegraph? I haven't got a penny. This isfunny, " said Johnny, unconsciously speaking aloud; "upon my word, this isfunny! Oh! you go to--. "

Johnny hurled this last at the head of an overgrown errand-boy whoseintention had been to offer sympathy. 

"Well, I never!" commented a passing flower-girl. "Calls 'erself a lidy, I suppose. "

"Nowadays, " observed the stud and button merchant at the corner of ExeterStreet, "they make 'em out of anything. "

Drawn by a notion that was forming in his mind, Johnny turned his stepsup Bedford Street. "Why not?" mused Johnny. "Nobody else seems to havea suspicion. Why should they? I'll never hear the last of it if theyfind me out. But why should they find me out? Well, something's got tobe done. "

Johnny walked on quickly. At the door of the Autolycus Club he wasundecided for a moment, then took his courage in both hands and plungedthrough the swing doors. 

"Is Mr. Herring--Mr. Jack Herring--here?"

"Find him in the smoking-room, Mr. Bulstrode, " answered old Goslin, whowas reading the evening paper. 

"Oh, would you mind asking him to step out a moment?"

Old Goslin looked up, took off his spectacles, rubbed them, put them onagain. 

"Please say Miss Bulstrode--Mr. Bulstrode's sister. "

Old Goslin found Jack Herring the centre of an earnest argument onHamlet--was he really mad?

"A lady to see you, Mr. Herring, " announced old Goslin. 

"A what?"

"Miss Bulstrode--Mr. Bulstrode's sister. She's waiting in the hall. "

"Never knew he had a sister, " said Jack Herring, rising. 

"Wait a minute, " said Harry Bennett. "Shut that door. Don't go. " Thisto old Goslin, who closed the door and returned. "Lady in a heliotropedress with a lace collar, three flounces on the skirt?"

"That's right, Mr. Bennett, " agreed old Goslin. 

"It's the Babe himself!" asserted Harry Bennett. 

The question of Hamlet's madness was forgotten. 

"Was in at Stinchcombe's this morning, " explained Harry Bennett; "saw theclothes on the counter addressed to him. That's the identical frock. This is just a 'try on'--thinks he's going to have a lark with us. "

The Autolycus Club looked round at itself. 

"I can see verra promising possibilities in this, provided the thing isproperly managed, " said the Wee Laddie, after a pause. 

"So can I, " agreed Jack Herring. "Keep where you are, all of you. 'Twould be a pity to fool it. "

The Autolycus Club waited. Jack Herring re-entered the room. 

"One of the saddest stories I have ever heard in all my life, " explainedJack Herring in a whisper. "Poor girl left Derbyshire this morning tocome and see her brother; found him out--hasn't been seen at his lodgingssince three o'clock; fears something may have happened to him. Landladygone to Romford to see her mother; strange woman in charge, won't let herin to wait for him. "

"How sad it is when trouble overtakes the innocent and helpless!"murmured Somerville the Briefless. 

"That's not the worst of it, " continued Jack. "The dear girl has beenrobbed of everything she possesses, even of her umbrella, and hasn't gota _sou_; hasn't had any dinner, and doesn't know where to sleep. "

"Sounds a bit elaborate, " thought Porson. 

"I think I can understand it, " said the Briefless one. "What hashappened is this. He's dressed up thinking to have a bit of fun with us, and has come out, forgetting to put any money or his latchkey in hispocket. His landlady may have gone to Romford or may not. In any case, he would have to knock at the door and enter into explanations. Whatdoes he suggest--the loan of a sovereign?"

"The loan of two, " replied Jack Herring. 

"To buy himself a suit of clothes. Don't you do it, Jack. Providencehas imposed this upon us. Our duty is to show him the folly of indulgingin senseless escapades. "

"I think we might give him a dinner, " thought the stout and sympatheticPorson. 

"What I propose to do, " grinned Jack, "is to take him round to Mrs. Postwhistle's. She's under a sort of obligation to me. It was I who gother the post office. We'll leave him there for a night, withinstructions to Mrs. P. To keep a motherly eye on him. To-morrow heshall have his 'bit of fun, ' and I guess he'll be the first to get tiredof the joke. "

It looked a promising plot. Seven members of the Autolycus Clubgallantly undertook to accompany "Miss Bulstrode" to her lodgings. JackHerring excited jealousy by securing the privilege of carrying herreticule. "Miss Bulstrode" was given to understand that anything any ofthe seven could do for her, each and every would be delighted to do, ifonly for the sake of her brother, one of the dearest boys that everbreathed--a bit of an ass, though that, of course, he could not help. "Miss Bulstrode" was not as grateful as perhaps she should have been. Heridea still was that if one of them would lend her a couple of sovereigns, the rest need not worry themselves further. This, purely in her owninterests, they declined to do. She had suffered one extensive robberythat day already, as Jack reminded her. London was a city of danger tothe young and inexperienced. Far better that they should watch over herand provide for her simple wants. Painful as it was to refuse a lady, abeloved companion's sister's welfare was yet dearer to them. "MissBulstrode's" only desire was not to waste their time. Jack Herring'sopinion was that there existed no true Englishman who would grudge timespent upon succouring a beautiful maiden in distress. 

Arrived at the little grocer's shop in Rolls Court, Jack Herring drewMrs. Postwhistle aside. 

"She's the sister of a very dear friend of ours, " explained Jack Herring. 

"A fine-looking girl, " commented Mrs. Postwhistle. 

"I shall be round again in the morning. Don't let her out of your sight, and, above all, don't lend her any money, " directed Jack Herring. 

"I understand, " replied Mrs. Postwhistle. 

"Miss Bulstrode" having despatched an excellent supper of cold mutton andbottled beer, leant back in her chair and crossed her legs. 

"I have often wondered, " remarked Miss Bulstrode, her eyes fixed upon theceiling, "what a cigarette would taste like. "

"Taste nasty, I should say, the first time, " thought Mrs. Postwhistle, who was knitting. 

"Some girls, so I have heard, " remarked Miss Bulstrode, "smokecigarettes. "

"Not nice girls, " thought Mrs. Postwhistle. 

"One of the nicest girls I ever knew, " remarked Miss Bulstrode, "alwayssmoked a cigarette after supper. Said it soothed her nerves. "

"Wouldn't 'ave thought so if I'd 'ad charge of 'er, " said Mrs. Postwhistle. 

"I think, " said Miss Bulstrode, who seemed restless, "I think I shall gofor a little walk before turning in. "

"Perhaps it would do us good, " agreed Mrs. Postwhistle, laying down herknitting. 

"Don't you trouble to come, " urged the thoughtful Miss Bulstrode. "Youlook tired. "

"Not at all, " replied Mrs. Postwhistle. "Feel I should like it. "

In some respects Mrs. Postwhistle proved an admirable companion. Sheasked no questions, and only spoke when spoken to, which, during thatwalk, was not often. At the end of half an hour, Miss Bulstrode pleadeda headache and thought she would return home and go to bed. Mrs. Postwhistle thought it a reasonable idea. 

"Well, it's better than tramping the streets, " muttered Johnny, as thebedroom door was closed behind him, "and that's all one can say for it. Must get hold of a smoke to-morrow, if I have to rob the till. What'sthat?" Johnny stole across on, tiptoe. "Confound it!" said Johnny, "ifshe hasn't locked the door!"

Johnny sat down upon the bed and took stock of his position. "It doesn'tseem to me, " thought Johnny, "that I'm ever going to get out of thismess. " Johnny, still muttering, unfastened his stays. "Thank God, that's off!" ejaculated Johnny piously, as he watched his form slowlyexpanding. "Suppose I'll be used to them before I've finished withthem. "

Johnny had a night of dreams. 

For the whole of next day, which was Friday, Johnny remained "MissBulstrode, " hoping against hope to find an opportunity to escape from hispredicament without confession. The entire Autolycus Club appeared tohave fallen in love with him. 

"Thought I was a bit of a fool myself, " mused Johnny, "where a petticoatwas concerned. Don't believe these blithering idiots have ever seen agirl before. "

They came in ones, they came in little parties, and tendered himdevotion. Even Mrs. Postwhistle, accustomed to regard human phenomenawithout comment, remarked upon it. 

"When you are all tired of it, " said Mrs. Postwhistle to Jack Herring, "let me know. "

"The moment we find her brother, " explained Jack Herring, "of course weshall take her to him. "

"Nothing like looking in the right place for a thing when you've finishedlooking in the others, " observed Mrs. Postwhistle. 

"What do you mean?" demanded Jack. 

"Just what I say, " answered Mrs. Postwhistle. 

Jack Herring looked at Mrs. Postwhistle. But Mrs. Postwhistle's face wasnot of the expressive order. 

"Post office still going strong?" asked Jack Herring. 

"The post office 'as been a great 'elp to me, " admitted Mrs. Postwhistle;"and I'm not forgetting that I owe it to you. "

"Don't mention it, " murmured Jack Herring. 

They brought her presents--nothing very expensive, more as tokens ofregard: dainty packets of sweets, nosegays of simple flowers, bottles ofscent. To Somerville "Miss Bulstrode" hinted that if he really diddesire to please her, and wasn't merely talking through his hat--MissBulstrode apologised for the slang, which, she feared, she must havepicked up from her brother--he might give her a box of Messani'scigarettes, size No. 2. The suggestion pained him. Somerville theBriefless was perhaps old-fashioned. Miss Bulstrode cut him short byagreeing that he was, and seemed disinclined for further conversation. 

They took her to Madame Tussaud's. They took her up the Monument. Theytook her to the Tower of London. In the evening they took her to thePolytechnic to see Pepper's Ghost. They made a merry party wherever theywent. 

"Seem to be enjoying themselves!" remarked other sightseers, surprisedand envious. 

"Girl seems to be a bit out of it, " remarked others, more observant. 

"Sulky-looking bit o' goods, I call her, " remarked some of the ladies. 

The fortitude with which Miss Bulstrode bore the mysterious disappearanceof her brother excited admiration. 

"Hadn't we better telegraph to your people in Derbyshire?" suggested JackHerring. 

"Don't do it, " vehemently protested the thoughtful Miss Bulstrode; "itmight alarm them. The best plan is for you to lend me a couple ofsovereigns and let me return home quietly. "

"You might be robbed again, " feared Jack Herring. "I'll go down withyou. "

"Perhaps he'll turn up to-morrow, " thought Miss Bulstrode. "Expect he'sgone on a visit. "

"He ought not to have done it, " thought Jack Herring, "knowing you werecoming. "

"Oh! he's like that, " explained Miss Bulstrode. 

"If I had a young and beautiful sister--" said Jack Herring. 

"Oh! let's talk of something else, " suggested Miss Bulstrode. "You makeme tired. "

With Jack Herring, in particular, Johnny was beginning to lose patience. That "Miss Bulstrode's" charms had evidently struck Jack Herring all of aheap, as the saying is, had in the beginning amused Master Johnny. Indeed--as in the seclusion of his bedchamber over the little grocer'sshop he told himself with bitter self-reproach--he had undoubtedlyencouraged the man. From admiration Jack had rapidly passed toinfatuation, from infatuation to apparent imbecility. Had Johnny's mindbeen less intent upon his own troubles, he might have been suspicious. Asit was, and after all that had happened, nothing now could astonishJohnny. "Thank Heaven, " murmured Johnny, as he blew out the light, "thisMrs. Postwhistle appears to be a reliable woman. "

Now, about the same time that Johnny's head was falling thus upon hispillow, the Autolycus Club sat discussing plans for their next day'sentertainment. 

"I think, " said Jack Herring, "the Crystal Palace in the morning whenit's nice and quiet. "

"To be followed by Greenwich Hospital in the afternoon, " suggestedSomerville. 

"Winding up with the Moore and Burgess Minstrels in the evening, " thoughtPorson. 

"Hardly the place for the young person, " feared Jack Herring. "Some ofthe jokes--"

"Mr. Brandram gives a reading of _Julius Caesar_ at St. George's Hall, "the Wee Laddie informed them for their guidance. 

"Hallo!" said Alexander the Poet, entering at the moment. "What are youall talking about?"

"We were discussing where to take Miss Bulstrode to-morrow evening, "informed him Jack Herring. 

"Miss Bulstrode, " repeated the Poet in a tone of some surprise. "Do youmean Johnny Bulstrode's sister?"

"That's the lady, " answered Jack. "But how do you come to know abouther? Thought you were in Yorkshire. "

"Came up yesterday, " explained the Poet. "Travelled up with her. "

"Travelled up with her?"

"From Matlock Bath. What's the matter with you all?" demanded the Poet. "You all of you look--"

"Sit down, " said the Briefless one to the Poet. "Let's talk this matterover quietly. "

Alexander the Poet, mystified, sat down. 

"You say you travelled up to London yesterday with Miss Bulstrode. Youare sure it was Miss Bulstrode?"

"Sure!" retorted the Poet. "Why, I've known her ever since she was ababy. "

"About what time did you reach London?"

"Three-thirty. "

"And what became of her? Where did she say she was going?"

"I never asked her. The last I saw of her she was getting into a cab. Ihad an appointment myself, and was--I say, what's the matter withHerring?"

Herring had risen and was walking about with his head between his hands. 

"Never mind him. Miss Bulstrode is a lady of about--how old?"

"Eighteen--no, nineteen last birthday. "

"A tall, handsome sort of girl?"

"Yes. I say, has anything happened to her?"

"Nothing has happened to her, " assured him Somerville. "_She's_ allright. Been having rather a good time, on the whole. "

The Poet was relieved to hear it. 

"I asked her an hour ago, " said Jack Herring, who was still holding hishead between his hands as if to make sure it was there, "if she thoughtshe could ever learn to love me. Would you say that could be construedinto an offer of marriage?"

The remainder of the Club was unanimously of opinion that, practicallyspeaking, it was a proposal. 

"I don't see it, " argued Jack Herring. "It was merely in the nature of aremark. "

The Club was of opinion that such quibbling was unworthy of a gentleman. 

It appeared to be a case for prompt action. Jack Herring sat down andthen and there began a letter to Miss Bulstrode, care of Mrs. Postwhistle. 

"But what I don't understand--" said Alexander the Poet. 

"Oh! take him away somewhere and tell him, someone, " moaned Jack Herring. "How can I think with all this chatter going on?"

"But why did Bennett--" whispered Porson. 

"Where is Bennett?" demanded half a dozen fierce voices. 

Harry Bennett had not been seen all day. 

Jack's letter was delivered to "Miss Bulstrode" the next morning atbreakfast-time. Having perused it, Miss Bulstrode rose and requested ofMrs. Postwhistle the loan of half a crown. 

"Mr. Herring's particular instructions were, " explained Mrs. Postwhistle, "that, above all things, I was not to lend you any money. "

"When you have read that, " replied Miss Bulstrode, handing her theletter, "perhaps you will agree with me that Herring is--an ass. "

Mrs. Postwhistle read the letter and produced the half-crown. 

"Better get a shave with part of it, " suggested Mrs. Postwhistle. "Thatis, if you are going to play the fool much longer. "

"Miss Bulstrode" opened his eyes. Mrs. Postwhistle went on with herbreakfast. 

"Don't tell them, " said Johnny; "not just for a little while, at allevents. "

"Nothing to do with me, " replied Mrs. Postwhistle. 

Twenty minutes later, the real Miss Bulstrode, on a visit to her aunt inKensington, was surprised at receiving, enclosed in an envelope, thefollowing hastily scrawled note:--

 "Want to speak to you at once--_alone_. Don't yell when you see me. It's all right. Can explain in two ticks. --Your loving brother, JOHNNY. "

It took longer than two ticks; but at last the Babe came to an end of it. 

"When you have done laughing, " said the Babe. 

"But you look so ridiculous, " said his sister. 

"_They_ didn't think so, " retorted the Babe. "I took them in all right. Guess you've never had as much attention, all in one day. "

"Are you sure you took them in?" queried his sister. 

"If you will come to the Club at eight o'clock this evening, " said theBabe, "I'll prove it to you. Perhaps I'll take you on to a theatreafterwards--if you're good. "

The Babe himself walked into the Autolycus Club a few minutes beforeeight and encountered an atmosphere of restraint. 

"Thought you were lost, " remarked Somerville coldly. 

"Called away suddenly--very important business, " explained the Babe. "Awfully much obliged to all you fellows for all you have been doing formy sister. She's just been telling me. "

"Don't mention it, " said two or three. 

"Awfully good of you, I'm sure, " persisted the Babe. "Don't know whatshe would have done without you. "

A mere nothing, the Club assured him. The blushing modesty of theAutolycus Club at hearing of their own good deeds was touching. Left tothemselves, they would have talked of quite other things. As a matter offact, they tried to. 

"Never heard her speak so enthusiastically of anyone as she does of you, Jack, " said the Babe, turning to Jack Herring. 

"Of course, you know, dear boy, " explained Jack Herring, "anything Icould do for a sister of yours--"

"I know, dear boy, " replied the Babe; "I always felt it. "

"Say no more about it, " urged Jack Herring. 

"She couldn't quite make out that letter of yours this morning, "continued the Babe, ignoring Jack's request. "She's afraid you think herungrateful. "

"It seemed to me, on reflection, " explained Jack Herring, "that on one ortwo little matters she may have misunderstood me. As I wrote her, thereare days when I don't seem altogether to quite know what I'm doing. "

"Rather awkward, " thought the Babe. 

"It is, " agreed Jack Herring. "Yesterday was one of them. "

"She tells me you were most kind to her, " the Babe reassured him. "Shethought at first it was a little uncivil, your refusing to lend her anymoney. But as I put it to her--"

"It was silly of me, " interrupted Jack. "I see that now. I went roundthis morning meaning to make it all right. But she was gone, and Mrs. Postwhistle seemed to think I had better leave things as they were. Iblame myself exceedingly. "

"My dear boy, don't blame yourself for anything. You acted nobly, " theBabe told him. "She's coming here to call for me this evening on purposeto thank you. "

"I'd rather not, " said Jack Herring. 

"Nonsense, " said the Babe. 

"You must excuse me, " insisted Jack Herring. "I don't mean it rudely, but really I'd rather not see her. "

"But here she is, " said the Babe, taking at that moment the card from oldGoslin's hand. "She will think it so strange. "

"I'd really rather not, " repeated poor Jack. 

"It seems discourteous, " suggested Somerville. 

"You go, " suggested Jack. 

"She doesn't want to see me, " explained Somerville. 

"Yes she does, " corrected him the Babe. 

"I'd forgotten, she wants to see you both. "

"If I go, " said Jack, "I shall tell her the plain truth. "

"Do you know, " said Somerville, "I'm thinking that will be the shortestway. "

Miss Bulstrode was seated in the hall. Jack Herring and Somerville boththought her present quieter style of dress suited her much better. 

"Here he is, " announced the Babe, in triumph. "Here's Jack Herring andhere's Somerville. Do you know, I could hardly persuade them to come outand see you. Dear old Jack, he always was so shy. "

Miss Bulstrode rose. She said she could never thank them sufficientlyfor all their goodness to her. Miss Bulstrode seemed quite overcome. Hervoice trembled with emotion. 

"Before we go further, Miss Bulstrode, " said Jack Herring, "it will bebest to tell you that all along we thought you were your brother, dressedup as a girl. "

"Oh!" said the Babe, "so that's the explanation, is it? If I had onlyknown--" Then the Babe stopped, and wished he hadn't spoken. 

Somerville seized him by the shoulders and, with a sudden jerk, stood himbeside his sister under the gas-jet. 

"You little brute!" said Somerville. "It was you all along. " And theBabe, seeing the game was up, and glad that the joke had not beenentirely on one side, confessed. 

Jack Herring and Somerville the Briefless went that night with Johnny andhis sister to the theatre--and on other nights. Miss Bulstrode thoughtJack Herring very nice, and told her brother so. But she thoughtSomerville the Briefless even nicer, and later, under cross-examination, when Somerville was no longer briefless, told Somerville so himself. 

But that has nothing to do with this particular story, the end of whichis that Miss Bulstrode kept the appointment made for Monday afternoonbetween "Miss Montgomery" and Mr. Jowett, and secured thereby the MarbleSoap advertisement for the back page of _Good Humour_ for six months, attwenty-five pounds a week. 

STORY THE SEVENTH--Dick Danvers presents his Petition

William Clodd, mopping his brow, laid down the screwdriver, and steppingback, regarded the result of his labours with evident satisfaction. 

"It looks like a bookcase, " said William Clodd. "You might sit in theroom for half an hour and never know it wasn't a bookcase. "

What William Clodd had accomplished was this: he had had prepared, afterhis own design, what appeared to be four shelves laden with workssuggestive of thought and erudition. As a matter of fact, it was not abookcase, but merely a flat board, the books merely the backs of volumesthat had long since found their way into the paper-mill. This artfuldeception William Clodd had screwed upon a cottage piano standing in thecorner of the editorial office of _Good Humour_. Half a dozen realvolumes piled upon the top of the piano completed the illusion. AsWilliam Clodd had proudly remarked, a casual visitor might easily havebeen deceived. 

"If you had to sit in the room while she was practising mixed scales, you'd be quickly undeceived, " said the editor of _Good Humour_, one PeterHope. He spoke bitterly. 

"You are not always in, " explained Clodd. "There must be hours when sheis here alone, with nothing else to do. Besides, you will get used to itafter a while. "

"You, I notice, don't try to get used to it, " snarled Peter Hope. "Youalways go out the moment she commences. "

"A friend of mine, " continued William Clodd, "worked in an office over apiano-shop for seven years, and when the shop closed, it nearly ruinedhis business; couldn't settle down to work for want of it. "

"Why doesn't he come here?" asked Peter Hope. "The floor above isvacant. "

"Can't, " explained William Clodd. "He's dead. "

"I can quite believe it, " commented Peter Hope. 

"It was a shop where people came and practised, paying sixpence an hour, and he had got to like it--said it made a cheerful background to histhoughts. Wonderful what you can get accustomed to. "

"What's the good of it?" demanded Peter Hope. 

"What's the good of it!" retorted William Clodd indignantly. "Every girlought to know how to play the piano. A nice thing if when her lover asksher to play something to him--"

"I wonder you don't start a matrimonial agency, " sneered Peter Hope. "Love and marriage--you think of nothing else. "

"When you are bringing up a young girl--" argued Clodd. 

"But you're not, " interrupted Peter; "that's just what I'm trying to getout of your head. It is I who am bringing her up. And betweenourselves, I wish you wouldn't interfere so much. "

"You are not fit to bring up a girl. "

"I've brought her up for seven years without your help. She's my adopteddaughter, not yours. I do wish people would learn to mind their ownbusiness. "

"You've done very well--"

"Thank you, " said Peter Hope sarcastically. "It's very kind of you. Perhaps when you've time, you'll write me out a testimonial. "

"--up till now, " concluded the imperturbable Clodd. "A girl of eighteenwants to know something else besides mathematics and the classics. Youdon't understand them. "

"I do understand them, " asserted Peter Hope. "What do you know aboutthem? You're not a father. "

"You've done your best, " admitted William Clodd in a tone of patronagethat irritated Peter greatly; "but you're a dreamer; you don't know theworld. The time is coming when the girl will have to think of ahusband. "

"There's no need for her to think of a husband, not for years, " retortedPeter Hope. "And even when she does, is strumming on the piano going tohelp her?"

"I tink--I tink, " said Dr. Smith, who had hitherto remained a silentlistener, "our young frent Clodd is right. You haf never quite got overyour idea dat she was going to be a boy. You haf taught her de tings aboy should know. "

"You cut her hair, " added Clodd. 

"I don't, " snapped Peter. 

"You let her have it cut--it's the same thing. At eighteen she knowsmore about the ancient Greeks and Romans than she does about her ownfrocks. "

"De young girl, " argued the doctor, "what is she? De flower dat makesbright for us de garden of life, de gurgling brook dat murmurs by dedusty highway, de cheerful fire--"

"She can't be all of them, " snapped Peter, who was a stickler for style. "Do keep to one simile at a time. "

"Now you listen to plain sense, " said William Clodd. "You want--we allwant--the girl to be a success all round. "

"I want her--" Peter Hope was rummaging among the litter on the desk. Itcertainly was not there. Peter pulled out a drawer-two drawers. "Iwish, " said Peter Hope, "I wish sometimes she wasn't quite so clever. "

The old doctor rummaged among dusty files of papers in a corner. Cloddfound it on the mantelpiece concealed beneath the hollow foot of a bigbrass candlestick, and handed it to Peter. 

Peter had one vice--the taking in increasing quantities of snuff, whichwas harmful for him, as he himself admitted. Tommy, sympathetic to mostmasculine frailties, was severe, however, upon this one. 

"You spill it upon your shirt and on your coat, " had argued Tommy. "Ilike to see you always neat. Besides, it isn't a nice habit. I do wish, dad, you'd give it up. "

"I must, " Peter had agreed. "I'll break myself of it. But not all atonce--it would be a wrench; by degrees, Tommy, by degrees. "

So a compromise had been compounded. Tommy was to hide the snuff-box. Itwas to be somewhere in the room and to be accessible, but that was all. Peter, when self-control had reached the breaking-point, might try andfind it. Occasionally, luck helping Peter, he would find it early in theday, when he would earn his own bitter self-reproaches by indulging inquite an orgie. But more often Tommy's artfulness was such that he wouldbe compelled, by want of time, to abandon the search. Tommy always knewwhen he had failed by the air of indignant resignation with which hewould greet her on her return. Then perhaps towards evening, Peter, looking up, would see the box open before his nose, above it, a pair ofreproving black eyes, their severity counterbalanced by a pair of fullred lips trying not to smile. And Peter, knowing that only one pinchwould be permitted, would dip deeply. 

"I want her, " said Peter Hope, feeling with his snuff-box in his handmore confidence in his own judgment, "to be a sensible, clever woman, capable of earning her own living and of being independent; not a merehelpless doll, crying for some man to come and take care of her. "

"A woman's business, " asserted Clodd, "is to be taken care of. "

"Some women, perhaps, " admitted Peter; "but Tommy, you know very well, isnot going to be the ordinary type of woman. She has brains; she willmake her way in the world. "

"It doesn't depend upon brains, " said Clodd. "She hasn't got theelbows. "

"The elbows?"

"They are not sharp enough. The last 'bus home on a wet night tells youwhether a woman is capable of pushing her own way in the world. Tommy'sthe sort to get left on the kerb. "

"She's the sort, " retorted Peter, "to make a name for herself and to beable to afford a cab. Don't you bully me!" Peter sniffedself-assertiveness from between his thumb and finger. 

"Yes, I shall, " Clodd told him, "on this particular point. The poorgirl's got no mother. "

Fortunately for the general harmony the door opened at the moment toadmit the subject of discussion. 

"Got that _Daisy Blossom_ advertisement out of old Blatchley, " announcedTommy, waving triumphantly a piece of paper over her head. 

"No!" exclaimed Peter. "How did you manage it?"

"Asked him for it, " was Tommy's explanation. 

"Very odd, " mused Peter; "asked the old idiot for it myself only lastweek. He refused it point-blank. "

Clodd snorted reproof. "You know I don't like your doing that sort ofthing. It isn't proper for a young girl--"

"It's all right, " assured him Tommy; "he's bald!"

"That makes no difference, " was Clodd's opinion. 

"Yes it does, " was Tommy's. "I like them bald. "

Tommy took Peter's head between her hands and kissed it, and in doing sonoticed the tell-tale specks of snuff. 

"Just a pinch, my dear, " explained Peter, "the merest pinch. "

Tommy took up the snuff-box from the desk. "I'll show you where I'mgoing to put it this time. " She put it in her pocket. Peter's facefell. 

"What do you think of it?" said Clodd. He led her to the corner. "Goodidea, ain't it?"

"Why, where's the piano?" demanded Tommy. 

Clodd turned in delighted triumph to the others. 

"Humbug!" growled Peter. 

"It isn't humbug, " cried Clodd indignantly. "She thought it was abookcase--anybody would. You'll be able to sit there and practise by thehour, " explained Clodd to Tommy. "When you hear anybody coming up thestairs, you can leave off. "

"How can she hear anything when she--" A bright idea occurred to Peter. "Don't you think, Clodd, as a practical man, " suggested Peterinsinuatingly, adopting the Socratic method, "that if we got her one ofthose dummy pianos--you know what I mean; it's just like an ordinarypiano, only you don't hear it?"

Clodd shook his head. "No good at all. Can't tell the effect she isproducing. "

"Quite so. Then, on the other hand, Clodd, don't you think that hearingthe effect they are producing may sometimes discourage the beginner?"

Clodd's opinion was that such discouragement was a thing to be battledwith. 

Tommy, who had seated herself, commenced a scale in contrary motion. 

"Well, I'm going across to the printer's now, " explained Clodd, taking uphis hat. "Got an appointment with young Grindley at three. You stick toit. A spare half-hour now and then that you never miss does wonders. You've got it in you. " With these encouraging remarks to Tommy, Clodddisappeared. 

"Easy for him, " muttered Peter bitterly. "Always does have anappointment outside the moment she begins. "

Tommy appeared to be throwing her very soul into the performance. Passers-by in Crane Court paused, regarded the first-floor windows of thepublishing and editorial offices of _Good Humour_ with troubled looks, then hurried on. 

"She has--remarkably firm douch!" shouted the doctor into Peter's ear. "Will see you--evening. Someting--say to you. "

The fat little doctor took his hat and departed. Tommy, ceasingsuddenly, came over and seated herself on the arm of Peter's chair. 

"Feeling grumpy?" asked Tommy. 

"It isn't, " explained Peter, "that I mind the noise. I'd put up withthat if I could see the good of it. "

"It's going to help me to get a husband, dad. Seems to me an odd way ofdoing it; but Billy says so, and Billy knows all about everything. "

"I can't understand you, a sensible girl, listening to such nonsense, "said Peter. "It's that that troubles me. "

"Dad, where are your wits?" demanded Tommy. "Isn't Billy acting like abrick? Why, he could go into Fleet Street to half a dozen other papersand make five hundred a year as advertising-agent--you know he could. Buthe doesn't. He sticks to us. If my making myself ridiculous with thattin pot they persuaded him was a piano is going to please him, isn't itcommon sense and sound business, to say nothing of good nature andgratitude, for me to do it? Dad, I've got a surprise for him. Listen. "And Tommy, springing from the arm of Peter's chair, returned to thepiano. 

"What was it?" questioned Tommy, having finished. "Could you recogniseit?"

"I think, " said Peter, "it sounded like--It wasn't 'Home, Sweet Home, 'was it?"

Tommy clapped her hands. "Yes, it was. You'll end by liking ityourself, dad. We'll have musical 'At Homes. '"

"Tommy, have I brought you up properly, do you think?"

"No dad, you haven't. You have let me have my own way too much. Youknow the proverb: 'Good mothers make bad daughters. ' Clodd's right;you've spoilt me, dad. Do you remember, dad, when I first came to you, seven years ago, a ragged little brat out of the streets, that didn'tknow itself whether 'twas a boy or a girl? Do you know what I thought tomyself the moment I set eyes on you? 'Here's a soft old juggins; I'll beall right if I can get in here!' It makes you smart, knocking about inthe gutters and being knocked about; you read faces quickly. "

"Do you remember your cooking, Tommy? You 'had an aptitude for it, 'according to your own idea. "

Tommy laughed. "I wonder how you stood it. "

"You were so obstinate. You came to me as 'cook and housekeeper, ' and ascook and housekeeper, and as nothing else, would you remain. If Isuggested any change, up would go your chin into the air. I dared noteven dine out too often, you were such a little tyrant. The only thingyou were always ready to do, if I wasn't satisfied, was to march out ofthe house and leave me. Wherever did you get that savage independence ofyours?"

"I don't know. I think it must have been from a woman--perhaps she wasmy mother; I don't know--who used to sit up in the bed and cough, allnight it seemed to me. People would come to see us--ladies in fineclothes, and gentlemen with oily hair. I think they wanted to help us. Many of them had kind voices. But always a hard look would come into herface, and she would tell them what even then I knew to be untrue--it wasone of the first things I can recollect--that we had everything wewanted, that we needed no help from anyone. They would go away, shrugging their shoulders. I grew up with the feeling that seemed tohave been burnt into my brain, that to take from anybody anything you hadnot earned was shameful. I don't think I could do it even now, not evenfrom you. I am useful to you, dad--I do help you?"

There had crept a terror into Tommy's voice. Peter felt the little handsupon his arm trembling. 

"Help me? Why, you work like a nigger--like a nigger is supposed towork, but doesn't. No one--whatever we paid him--would do half as much. I don't want to make your head more swollen than it is, young woman, butyou have talent; I am not sure it is not genius. " Peter felt the littlehands tighten upon his arm. 

"I do want this paper to be a success; that is why I strum upon the pianoto please Clodd. Is it humbug?"

"I am afraid it is; but humbug is the sweet oil that helps this whirlingworld of ours to spin round smoothly. Too much of it cloys: we drop itvery gently. "

"But you are sure it is only humbug, Tommy?" It was Peter's voice intowhich fear had entered now. "It is not that you think he understands youbetter than I do--would do more for you?"

"You want me to tell you all I think of you, and that isn't good for you, dad--not too often. It would be you who would have swelled head then. "

"I am jealous, Tommy, jealous of everyone that comes near you. Life is atragedy for us old folks. We know there must come a day when you willleave the nest, leave us voiceless, ridiculous, flitting among barebranches. You will understand later, when you have children of your own. This foolish talk about a husband! It is worse for a man than it is forthe woman. The mother lives again in her child: the man is robbed ofall. "

"Dad, do you know how old I am?--that you are talking terrible nonsense?"

"He will come, little girl. "

"Yes, " answered Tommy, "I suppose he will; but not for a long while--oh, not for a very long while. Don't. It frightens me. "

"You? Why should it frighten you?"

"The pain. It makes me feel a coward. I want it to come; I want totaste life, to drain the whole cup, to understand, to feel. But that isthe boy in me. I am more than half a boy, I always have been. But thewoman in me: it shrinks from the ordeal. "

"You talk, Tommy, as if love were something terrible. "

"There are all things in it; I feel it, dad. It is life in a singledraught. It frightens me. "

The child was standing with her face hidden behind her hands. Old Peter, always very bad at lying, stood silent, not knowing what consolation toconcoct. The shadow passed, and Tommy's laughing eyes looked out again. 

"Haven't you anything to do, dad--outside, I mean?"

"You want to get rid of me?"

"Well, I've nothing else to occupy me till the proofs come in. I'm goingto practise, hard. "

"I think I'll turn over my article on the Embankment, " said Peter. 

"There's one thing you all of you ought to be grateful to me for, "laughed Tommy, as she seated herself at the piano. "I do induce you allto take more fresh air than otherwise you would. "

Tommy, left alone, set herself to her task with the energy andthoroughness that were characteristic of her. Struggling withcomplicated scales, Tommy bent her eyes closer and closer over the pagesof _Czerny's Exercises_. Glancing up to turn a page, Tommy, to hersurprise, met the eyes of a stranger. They were brown eyes, theirexpression sympathetic. Below them, looking golden with the sunlightfalling on it, was a moustache and beard cut short in Vandyke fashion, not altogether hiding a pleasant mouth, about the corners of which lurkeda smile. 

"I beg your pardon, " said the stranger. "I knocked three times. Perhapsyou did not hear me?"

"No, I didn't, " confessed Tommy, closing the book of _Czerny'sExercises_, and rising with chin at an angle that, to anyone acquaintedwith the chart of Tommy's temperament, might have suggested theadvisability of seeking shelter. 

"This is the editorial office of _Good Humour_, is it not?" inquired thestranger. 

"It is. "

"Is the editor in?"

"The editor is out. "

"The sub-editor?" suggested the stranger. 

"I am the sub-editor. "

The stranger raised his eyebrows. Tommy, on the contrary, lowered hers. 

"Would you mind glancing through that?" The stranger drew from hispocket a folded manuscript. "It will not take you a moment. I ought, ofcourse, to have sent it through the post; but I am so tired of sendingthings through the post. "

The stranger's manner was compounded of dignified impudence combined withpathetic humility. His eyes both challenged and pleaded. Tommy held outher hand for the paper and retired with it behind the protection of thebig editorial desk that, flanked on one side by a screen and on the otherby a formidable revolving bookcase, stretched fortress-like across thenarrow room. The stranger remained standing. 

"Yes. It's pretty, " criticised the sub-editor. "Worth printing, perhaps, not worth paying for. "

"Not merely a--a nominal sum, sufficient to distinguish it from the workof the amateur?"

Tommy pursed her lips. "Poetry is quite a drug in the market. We canget as much as we want of it for nothing. "

"Say half a crown, " suggested the stranger. 

Tommy shot a swift glance across the desk, and for the first time saw thewhole of him. He was clad in a threadbare, long, brown ulster--long, that is, it would have been upon an ordinary man, but the strangerhappening to be remarkably tall, it appeared on him ridiculously short, reaching only to his knees. Round his neck and tucked into hiswaistcoat, thus completely hiding the shirt and collar he may have beenwearing or may not, was carefully arranged a blue silk muffler. Hishands, which were bare, looked blue and cold. Yet the black frock-coatand waistcoat and French grey trousers bore the unmistakable cut of afirst-class tailor and fitted him to perfection. His hat, which he hadrested on the desk, shone resplendent, and the handle of his silkumbrella was an eagle's head in gold, with two small rubies for the eyes. 

"You can leave it if you like, " consented Tommy. "I'll speak to theeditor about it when he returns. "

"You won't forget it?" urged the stranger. 

"No, " answered Tommy. "I shall not forget it. "

Her black eyes were fixed upon the stranger without her being aware ofit. She had dropped unconsciously into her "stocktaking" attitude. 

"Thank you very much, " said the stranger. "I will call again to-morrow. "

The stranger, moving backward to the door, went out. 

Tommy sat with her face between her hands. _Czerny's Exercises_ layneglected. 

"Anybody called?" asked Peter Hope. 

"No, " answered Tommy. "Oh, just a man. Left this--not bad. "

"The old story, " mused Peter, as he unfolded the manuscript. "We all ofus begin with poetry. Then we take to prose romances; poetry doesn'tpay. Finally, we write articles: 'How to be Happy though Married, ' 'Whatshall we do with our Daughters?' It is life summarised. What is it allabout?"

"Oh, the usual sort of thing, " explained Tommy. "He wants half a crownfor it. "

"Poor devil! Let him have it. "

"That's not business, " growled Tommy. 

"Nobody will ever know, " said Peter. "We'll enter it as 'telegrams. '"

The stranger called early the next day, pocketed his half-crown, and leftanother manuscript--an essay. Also he left behind him his gold-handledumbrella, taking away with him instead an old alpaca thing Clodd kept inreserve for exceptionally dirty weather. Peter pronounced the essayusable. 

"He has a style, " said Peter; "he writes with distinction. Make anappointment for me with him. "

Clodd, on missing his umbrella, was indignant. 

"What's the good of this thing to me?" commented Clodd. "Sort of thingfor a dude in a pantomime! The fellow must be a blithering ass!"

Tommy gave to the stranger messages from both when next he called. Heappeared more grieved than surprised concerning the umbrellas. 

"You don't think Mr. Clodd would like to keep this umbrella in exchangefor his own?" he suggested. 

"Hardly his style, " explained Tommy. 

"It's very peculiar, " said the stranger, with a smile. "I have beentrying to get rid of this umbrella for the last three weeks. Once upon atime, when I preferred to keep my own umbrella, people used to take it bymistake, leaving all kinds of shabby things behind them in exchange. Now, when I'd really like to get quit of it, nobody will have it. "

"Why do you want to get rid of it?" asked Tommy. "It looks a very goodumbrella. "

"You don't know how it hampers me, " said the stranger. "I have to liveup to it. It requires a certain amount of resolution to enter a cheaprestaurant accompanied by that umbrella. When I do, the waiters draw myattention to the most expensive dishes and recommend me special brands oftheir so-called champagne. They seem quite surprised if I only want achop and a glass of beer. I haven't always got the courage to disappointthem. It is really becoming quite a curse to me. If I use it to stop a'bus, three or four hansoms dash up and quarrel over me. I can't doanything I want to do. I want to live simply and inexpensively: it willnot let me. "

Tommy laughed. "Can't you lose it?"

The stranger laughed also. "Lose it! You have no idea how honest peopleare. I hadn't myself. The whole world has gone up in my estimationwithin the last few weeks. People run after me for quite long distancesand force it into my hand--people on rainy days who haven't got umbrellasof their own. It is the same with this hat. " The stranger sighed as hetook it up. "I am always trying to get _off_ with something reasonablyshabby in exchange for it. I am always found out and stopped. "

"Why don't you pawn them?" suggested the practicable Tommy. 

The stranger regarded her with admiration. 

"Do you know, I never thought of that, " said the stranger. "Of course. What a good idea! Thank you so much. "

The stranger departed, evidently much relieved. 

"Silly fellow, " mused Tommy. "They won't give him a quarter of thevalue, and he will say: 'Thank you so much, ' and be quite contented. " Itworried Tommy a good deal that day, the thought of that stranger'shelplessness. 

The stranger's name was Richard Danvers. He lived the other side ofHolborn, in Featherstone Buildings, but much of his time came to be spentin the offices of _Good Humour_. 

Peter liked him. "Full of promise, " was Peter's opinion. "His criticismof that article of mine on 'The Education of Woman' showed both sense andfeeling. A scholar and a thinker. "

Flipp, the office-boy (spelt Philip), liked him; and Flipp's attitude, ingeneral, was censorial. "He's all right, " pronounced Flipp; "nothingstuck-up about him. He's got plenty of sense, lying hidden away. "

Miss Ramsbotham liked him. "The men--the men we think about at all, "explained Miss Ramsbotham--"may be divided into two classes: the men weought to like, but don't; and the men there is no particular reason forour liking, but that we do. Personally I could get very fond of yourfriend Dick. There is nothing whatever attractive about him excepthimself. "

Even Tommy liked him in her way, though at times she was severe with him. 

"If you mean a big street, " grumbled Tommy, who was going over proofs, "why not say a big street? Why must you always call it a 'main artery'?"

"I am sorry, " apologised Danvers. "It is not my own idea. You told meto study the higher-class journals. "

"I didn't tell you to select and follow all their faults. Here it isagain. Your crowd is always a 'hydra-headed monster'; your tea 'the cupthat cheers but not inebriates. '"

"I am afraid I am a deal of trouble to you, " suggested the staff. 

"I am afraid you are, " agreed the sub-editor. 

"Don't give me up, " pleaded the staff. "I misunderstood you, that isall. I will write English for the future. "

"Shall be glad if you will, " growled the sub-editor. 

Dick Danvers rose. "I am so anxious not to get what you call 'the sack'from here. "

The sub-editor, mollified, thought the staff need be under noapprehension, provided it showed itself teachable. 

"I have been rather a worthless fellow, Miss Hope, " confessed DickDanvers. "I was beginning to despair of myself till I came across youand your father. The atmosphere here--I don't mean the materialatmosphere of Crane Court--is so invigorating: its simplicity, itssincerity. I used to have ideals. I tried to stifle them. There is aset that sneers at all that sort of thing. Now I see that they are good. You will help me?"

Every woman is a mother. Tommy felt for the moment that she wanted totake this big boy on her knee and talk to him for his good. He was onlyan overgrown lad. But so exceedingly overgrown! Tommy had to contentherself with holding out her hand. Dick Danvers grasped it tightly. 

Clodd was the only one who did not approve of him. 

"How did you get hold of him?" asked Clodd one afternoon, he and Peteralone in the office. 

"He came. He came in the usual way, " explained Peter. 

"What do you know about him?"

"Nothing. What is there to know? One doesn't ask for a character with ajournalist. "

"No, I suppose that wouldn't work. Found out anything about him since?"

"Nothing against him. Why so suspicious of everybody?"

"Because you are just a woolly lamb and want a dog to look after you. Whois he? On a first night he gives away his stall and sneaks into the pit. When you send him to a picture-gallery, he dodges the private view andgoes on the first shilling day. If an invitation comes to a publicdinner, he asks me to go and eat it for him and tell him what it's allabout. That doesn't suggest the frank and honest journalist, does it?"

"It is unusual, it certainly is unusual, " Peter was bound to admit. 

"I distrust the man, " said Clodd. "He's not our class. What is he doinghere?"

"I will ask him, Clodd; I will ask him straight out. "

"And believe whatever he tells you. "

"No, I shan't. "

"Then what's the good of asking him?"

"Well, what am I to do?" demanded the bewildered Peter. 

"Get rid of him, " suggested Clodd. 

"Get rid of him?"

"Get him away! Don't have him in and out of the office all daylong-looking at her with those collie-dog eyes of his, arguing art andpoetry with her in that cushat-dove voice of his. Get him clean away--ifit isn't too late already. "

"Nonsense, " said Peter, who had turned white, however. "She's not thatsort of girl. "

"Not that sort of girl!" Clodd had no patience with Peter Hope, and toldhim so. "Why are there never inkstains on her fingers now? There usedto be. Why does she always keep a lemon in her drawer? When did shelast have her hair cut? I'll tell you if you care to know--the weekbefore he came, five months ago. She used to have it cut once afortnight: said it tickled her neck. Why does she jump on people whenthey call her Tommy and tell them that her name is Jane? It never usedto be Jane. Maybe when you're a bit older you'll begin to notice thingsfor yourself. "

Clodd jammed his hat on his head and flung himself down the stairs. 

Peter, slipping out a minute later, bought himself an ounce of snuff. 

"Fiddle-de-dee!" said Peter as he helped himself to his thirteenth pinch. "Don't believe it. I'll sound her. I shan't say a word--I'll just soundher. "

Peter stood with his back to the fire. Tommy sat at her desk, correctingproofs of a fanciful story: _The Man Without a Past_. 

"I shall miss him, " said Peter; "I know I shall. "

"Miss whom?" demanded Tommy. 

"Danvers, " sighed Peter. "It always happens so. You get friendly with aman; then he goes away--abroad, back to America, Lord knows where. Younever see him again. "

Tommy looked up. There was trouble in her face. 

"How do you spell 'harassed'?" questioned Tommy! "two r's or one. "

"One r, " Peter informed her, "two s's. "

"I thought so. " The trouble passed from Tommy's face. 

"You don't ask when he's going, you don't ask where he's going, "complained Peter. "You don't seem to be interested in the least. "

"I was going to ask, so soon as I had finished correcting this sheet, "explained Tommy. "What reason does he give?"

Peter had crossed over and was standing where he could see her faceillumined by the lamplight. 

"It doesn't upset you--the thought of his going away, of your neverseeing him again?"

"Why should it?" Tommy answered his searching gaze with a slightlypuzzled look. "Of course, I'm sorry. He was becoming useful. But wecouldn't expect him to stop with us always, could we?"

Peter, rubbing his hands, broke into a chuckle. "I told him 'twas allfiddlesticks. Clodd, he would have it you were growing to care for thefellow. "

"For Dick Danvers?" Tommy laughed. "Whatever put that into his head?"

"Oh, well, there were one or two little things that we had noticed. "

"We?"

"I mean that Clodd had noticed. "

I'm glad it was Clodd that noticed them, not you, dad, thought Tommy toherself. They'd have been pretty obvious if you had noticed them. 

"It naturally made me anxious, " confessed Peter. "You see, we knowabsolutely nothing of the fellow. "

"Absolutely nothing, " agreed Tommy. 

"He may be a man of the highest integrity. Personally, I think he is. Ilike him. On the other hand, he may be a thorough-paced scoundrel. Idon't believe for a moment that he is, but he may be. Impossible tosay. "

"Quite impossible, " agreed Tommy. 

"Considered merely as a journalist, it doesn't matter. He writes well. He has brains. There's an end of it. "

"He is very painstaking, " agreed Tommy. 

"Personally, " added Peter, "I like the fellow. " Tommy had returned toher work. 

Of what use was Peter in a crisis of this kind? Peter couldn't scold. Peter couldn't bully. The only person to talk to Tommy as Tommy knew sheneeded to be talked to was one Jane, a young woman of dignity with senseof the proprieties. 

"I do hope that at least you are feeling ashamed of yourself, " remarkedJane to Tommy that same night, as the twain sat together in their littlebedroom. 

"Done nothing to be ashamed of, " growled Tommy. 

"Making a fool of yourself openly, for everybody to notice. "

"Clodd ain't everybody. He's got eyes at the back of his head. Seesthings before they happen. "

"Where's your woman's pride: falling in love with a man who has neverspoken to you, except in terms of the most ordinary courtesy. "

"I'm not in love with him. "

"A man about whom you know absolutely nothing. "

"Not in love with him. "

"Where does he come from? Who is he?"

"I don't know, don't care; nothing to do with me. "

"Just because of his soft eyes, and his wheedling voice, and that half-caressing, half-devotional manner of his. Do you imagine he keeps itspecially for you? I gave you credit for more sense. "

"I'm not in love with him, I tell you. He's down on his luck, and I'msorry for him, that's all. "

"And if he is, whose fault was it, do you think?"

"It doesn't matter. We are none of us saints. He's trying to pullhimself together, and I respect him for it. It's our duty to becharitable and kind to one another in this world!"

"Oh, well, I'll tell you how you can be kind to him: by pointing out tohim that he is wasting his time. With his talents, now that he knows hisbusiness, he could be on the staff of some big paper, earning a goodincome. Put it nicely to him, but be firm. Insist on his going. Thatwill be showing true kindness to him--and to yourself, too, I'm thinking, my dear. "

And Tommy understood and appreciated the sound good sense underlyingJane's advice, and the very next day but one, seizing the firstopportunity, acted upon it; and all would have gone as contemplated ifonly Dick Danvers had sat still and listened, as it had been arranged inTommy's programme that he should. 

"But I don't want to go, " said Dick. 

"But you ought to want to go. Staying here with us you are doingyourself no good. "

He rose and came to where she stood with one foot upon the fender, looking down into the fire. His doing this disconcerted her. So long ashe remained seated at the other end of the room, she was the sub-editor, counselling the staff for its own good. Now that she could not raise hereyes without encountering his, she felt painfully conscious of beingnothing more important than a little woman who was trembling. 

"It is doing me all the good in the world, " he told her, "being near toyou. "

"Oh, please do sit down again, " she urged him. "I can talk to you somuch better when you're sitting down. "

But he would not do anything he should have done that day. Instead hetook her hands in his, and would not let them go; and the reason and thewill went out of her, leaving her helpless. 

"Let me be with you always, " he pleaded. "It means the differencebetween light and darkness to me. You have done so much for me. Willyou not finish your work? Will you not trust me? It is no hot passionthat can pass away, my love for you. It springs from all that is best inme--from the part of me that is wholesome and joyous and strong, the partof me that belongs to you. "

Releasing her, he turned away. 

"The other part of me--the blackguard--it is dead, dear, --dead andburied. I did not know I was a blackguard, I thought myself a finefellow, till one day it came home to me. Suddenly I saw myself as Ireally was. And the sight of the thing frightened me and I ran away fromit. I said to myself I would begin life afresh, in a new country, freeof every tie that could bind me to the past. It would meanpoverty--privation, maybe, in the beginning. What of that? The strugglewould brace me. It would be good sport. Ah, well, you can guess theresult: the awakening to the cold facts, the reaction of feeling. Inwhat way was I worse than other men? Who was I, to play the prig in aworld where others were laughing and dining? I had tramped your citytill my boots were worn into holes. I had but to abandon my quixoticideals--return to where shame lay waiting for me, to be welcomed with thefatted calf. It would have ended so had I not chanced to pass by yourdoor that afternoon and hear you strumming on the piano. "

So Billy was right, after all, thought Tommy to herself, the piano doeshelp. 

"It was so incongruous--a piano in Crane Court--I looked to see where thenoise came from. I read the name of the paper on the doorpost. 'It willbe my last chance, ' I said to myself. 'This shall decide it. '"

He came back to her. She had not moved. "I am not afraid to tell youall this. You are so big-hearted, so human; you will understand, you canforgive. It is all past. Loving you tells a man that he has done withevil. Will you not trust me?"

She put her hands in his. "I am trusting you, " she said, "with all mylife. Don't make a muddle of it, dear, if you can help it. "

It was an odd wooing, as Tommy laughingly told herself when she came tothink it over in her room that night. But that is how it shaped itself. 

What troubled her most was that he had not been quite frank with Peter, so that Peter had to defend her against herself. 

"I attacked you so suddenly, " explained Peter, "you had not time tothink. You acted from instinct. A woman seeks to hide her love evenfrom herself. "

"I expect, after all, I am more of a girl than a boy, " feared Tommy: "Iseem to have so many womanish failings. "

Peter took himself into quite places and trained himself to face the factthat another would be more to her than he had ever been, and Clodd wentabout his work like a bear with a sore head; but they neither of themneed have troubled themselves so much. The marriage did not take placetill nearly fifteen years had passed away, and much water had to flowbeneath old London Bridge before that day. 

The past is not easily got rid of. A tale was once written of a womanwho killed her babe and buried it in a lonely wood, and later stole backin the night and saw there, white in the moonlight, a child's handcalling through the earth, and buried it again and yet again; but alwaysthat white baby hand called upwards through the earth, trample it down asshe would. Tommy read the story one evening in an old miscellany, andsat long before the dead fire, the book open on her lap, and shivered;for now she knew the fear that had been haunting her. 

Tommy lived expecting her. She came one night when Tommy was alone, working late in the office. Tommy knew her the moment she entered thedoor, a handsome woman, with snake-like, rustling skirts. She closed thedoor behind her, and drawing forward a chair, seated herself the otherside of the desk, and the two looked long and anxiously at one another. 

"They told me I should find you here alone, " said the woman. "It isbetter, is it not?"

"Yes, " said Tommy, "it is better. "

"Tell me, " said the woman, "are you very much in love with him?"

"Why should I tell you?"

"Because, if not--if you have merely accepted him thinking him a goodcatch--which he isn't, my dear; hasn't a penny to bless himself with, andnever will if he marries you--why, then the matter is soon settled. Theytell me you are a business-like young lady, and I am prepared to make abusiness-like proposition. "

There was no answer. The woman shrugged her shoulders. 

"If, on the other hand, you are that absurd creature, a young girl inlove--why, then, I suppose we shall have to fight for him. "

"It would be more sporting, would it not?" suggested Tommy. 

"Let me explain before you decide, " continued the woman. "Dick Danversleft me six months ago, and has kept from me ever since, because he lovedme. "

"It sounds a curious reason. "

"I was a married woman when Dick Danvers and I first met. Since he leftme--for my sake and his own--I have received information of my husband'sdeath. "

"And does Dick--does he know?" asked the girl. 

"Not yet. I have only lately learnt the news myself. "

"Then if it is as you say, when he knows he will go back to you. "

"There are difficulties in the way. "

"What difficulties?"

"My dear, this. To try and forget me, he has been making love to you. Men do these things. I merely ask you to convince yourself of the truth. Go away for six months--disappear entirely. Leave him free--uninfluenced. If he loves you--if it be not merely a sense of honour that binds him--youwill find him here on your return. If not--if in the interval I havesucceeded in running off with him, well, is not the two or three thousandpounds I am prepared to put into this paper of yours a fair price forsuch a lover?"

Tommy rose with a laugh of genuine amusement. She could never altogetherput aside her sense of humour, let Fate come with what terrifying face itwould. 

"You may have him for nothing--if he is that man, " the girl told her; "heshall be free to choose between us. "

"You mean you will release him from his engagement?"

"That is what I mean. "

"Why not take my offer? You know the money is needed. It will save yourfather years of anxiety and struggle. Go away--travel, for a couple ofmonths, if you're afraid of the six. Write him that you must be alone, to think things over. "

The girl turned upon her. 

"And leave you a free field to lie and trick?"

The woman, too, had risen. "Do you think he really cares for you? Atthe moment you interest him. At nineteen every woman is a mystery. Whenthe mood is past--and do you know how long a man's mood lasts, you poorchit? Till he has caught what he is running after, and has tastedit--then he will think not of what he has won, but of what he has lost:of the society from which he has cut himself adrift; of all the oldpleasures and pursuits he can no longer enjoy; of theluxuries--necessities to a man of his stamp--that marriage with you hasdeprived him of. Then your face will be a perpetual reminder to him ofwhat he has paid for it, and he will curse it every time he sees it. "

"You don't know him, " the girl cried. "You know just a part of him--thepart you would know. All the rest of him is a good man, that wouldrather his self-respect than all the luxuries you mention--you included. "

"It seems to resolve itself into what manner of man he is, " laughed thewoman. 

The girl looked at her watch. "He will be here shortly; he shall tell ushimself. "

"How do you mean?"

"That here, between the two of us, he shall decide--this very night. " Sheshowed her white face to the woman. "Do you think I could live through asecond day like to this?"

"The scene would be ridiculous. "

"There will be none here to enjoy the humour of it. "

"He will not understand. "

"Oh, yes, he will, " the girl laughed. "Come, you have all theadvantages; you are rich, you are clever; you belong to his class. If heelects to stop with me, it will be because he is my man--mine. Are youafraid?"

The woman shivered. She wrapped her fur cloak about her closer and satdown again, and Tommy returned to her proofs. It was press-night, andthere was much to be done. 

He came a little later, though how long the time may have seemed to thetwo women one cannot say. They heard his footstep on the stair. Thewoman rose and went forward, so that when he opened the door she was thefirst he saw. But he made no sign. Possibly he had been schoolinghimself for this moment, knowing that sooner or later it must come. Thewoman held out her hand to him with a smile. 

"I have not the honour, " he said. 

The smile died from her face. "I do not understand, " she said. 

"I have not the honour, " he repeated. "I do not know you. "

The girl was leaning with her back against the desk in a somewhat mannishattitude. He stood between them. It will always remain Life's chiefcomic success: the man between two women. The situation has amused theworld for so many years. Yet, somehow, he contrived to maintain acertain dignity. 

"Maybe, " he continued, "you are confounding me with a Dick Danvers wholived in New York up to a few months ago. I knew him well--a worthlessscamp you had done better never to have met. "

"You bear a wonderful resemblance to him, " laughed the woman. 

"The poor fool is dead, " he answered. "And he left for you, my dearlady, this dying message: that, from the bottom of his soul, he was sorryfor the wrong he had done you. He asked you to forgive him--and forgethim. "

"The year appears to be opening unfortunately for me, " said the woman. "First my lover, then my husband. "

He had nerved himself to fight the living. This was a blow from thedead. The man had been his friend. 

"Dead?"

"He was killed, it appears, in that last expedition in July, " answeredthe woman. "I received the news from the Foreign Office only a fortnightago. "

An ugly look came into his eyes--the look of a cornered creature fightingfor its life. "Why have you followed me here? Why do I find you herealone with her? What have you told her?"

The woman shrugged her shoulders. "Only the truth. "

"All the truth?" he demanded--"all? Ah! be just. Tell her it was notall my fault. Tell her all the truth. "

"What would you have me tell her? That I played Potiphar's wife to yourJoseph?"

"Ah, no! The truth--only the truth. That you and I were a pair of idlefools with the devil dancing round us. That we played a fool's game, andthat it is over. "

"Is it over? Dick, is it over?" She flung her arms towards him; but hethrew her from him almost brutally. "The man is dead, I tell you. Hisfolly and his sin lie dead with him. I have nothing to do with you, noryou with me. "

"Dick!" she whispered. "Dick, cannot you understand? I must speak withyou alone. "

But they did not understand, neither the man nor the child. 

"Dick, are you really dead?" she cried. "Have you no pity for me? Doyou think that I have followed you here to grovel at your feet for merewhim? Am I acting like a woman sane and sound? Don't you see that I ammad, and why I am mad? Must I tell you before her? Dick--" Shestaggered towards him, and the fine cloak slipped from her shoulders; andthen it was that Tommy changed from a child into a woman, and raised theother woman from the ground with crooning words of encouragement such asmothers use, and led her to the inner room. "Do not go, " she said, turning to Dick; "I shall be back in a few minutes. "

He crossed to one of the windows against which beat the City's roar, andit seemed to him as the throb of passing footsteps beating down throughthe darkness to where he lay in his grave. 

She re-entered, closing the door softly behind her. "It is true?" sheasked. 

"It can be. I had not thought of it. "

They spoke in low, matter-of-fact tones, as people do who have grownweary of their own emotions. 

"When did he go away--her husband?"

"About--it is February now, is it not? About eighteen months ago. "

"And died just eight months ago. Rather conveniently, poor fellow. "

"Yes, I'm glad he is dead--poor Lawrence. "

"What is the shortest time in which a marriage can be arranged?"

"I do not know, " he answered listlessly. "I do not intend to marry her. "

"You would leave her to bear it alone?"

"It is not as if she were a poor woman. You can do anything with money. "

"It will not mend reputation. Her position in society is everything tothat class of woman. "

"My marrying her now, " he pointed out, "would not save her. "

"Practically speaking it would, " the girl pleaded. "The world does notgo out of its way to find out things it does not want to know. Marry heras quietly as possible and travel for a year or two. "

"Why should I? Ah! it is easy enough to call a man a coward fordefending himself against a woman. What is he to do when he is fightingfor his life? Men do not sin with good women. "

"There is the child to be considered, " she urged--"your child. You see, dear, we all do wrong sometimes. We must not let others suffer for ourfault more--more than we can help. "

He turned to her for the first time. "And you?"

"I? Oh, I shall cry for a little while, but later on I shall laugh, asoften. Life is not all love. I have my work. "

He knew her well by this time. And also it came to him that it would bea finer thing to be worthy of her than even to possess her. 

So he did her bidding and went out with the other woman. Tommy was gladit was press-night. She would not be able to think for hours to come, and then, perhaps, she would be feeling too tired. Work can be verykind. 

Were this an artistic story, here, of course, one would write "Finis. "But in the workaday world one never knows the ending till it comes. Hadit been otherwise, I doubt I could have found courage to tell you thisstory of Tommy. It is not all true--at least, I do not suppose so. Onedrifts unconsciously a little way into dream-land when one sits oneselfdown to recall the happenings of long ago; while Fancy, with a sly wink, whispers ever and again to Memory: "Let me tell this incident--picturethat scene: I can make it so much more interesting than you would. " ButTommy--how can I put it without saying too much: there is someone I thinkof when I speak of her? To remember only her dear wounds, and not thehealing of them, would have been a task too painful. I love to dwell ontheir next meeting. Flipp, passing him on the steps, did not know him, the tall, sunburnt gentleman with the sweet, grave-faced little girl. 

"Seen that face somewhere before, " mused Flipp, as at the corner ofBedford Street he climbed into a hansom, "seen it somewhere on a thinnerman. "

For Dick Danvers, that he did not recognise Flipp, there was more excuse. A very old young man had Flipp become at thirty. Flipp no longer enjoyedpopular journalism. He produced it. 

The gold-bound doorkeeper feared the mighty Clodd would be unable to seeso insignificant an atom as an unappointed stranger, but would let thecard of Mr. Richard Danvers plead for itself. To the gold-bound keeper'ssurprise came down the message that Mr. Danvers was to be at once shownup. 

"I thought, somehow, you would come to me first, " said the portly Clodd, advancing with out-stretched hand. "And this is--?"

"My little girl, Honor. We have been travelling for the last fewmonths. "

Clodd took the grave, small face between his big, rough hands:

"Yes. She is like you. But looks as if she were going to have moresense. Forgive me, I knew your father my dear, " laughed Clodd; "when hewas younger. "

They lit their cigars and talked. 

"Well, not exactly dead; we amalgamated it, " winked Clodd in answer toDanvers' inquiry. "It was just a trifle _too_ high-class. Besides, theold gentleman was not getting younger. It hurt him a little at first. But then came Tommy's great success, and that has reconciled him to allthings. Do they know you are in England?"

"No, " explained Danvers; "we arrived only last night. "

Clodd called directions down the speaking-tube. 

"You will find hardly any change in her. One still has to keep one's eyeupon her chin. She has not even lost her old habit of taking stock ofpeople. You remember. " Clodd laughed. 

They talked a little longer, till there came a whistle, and Clodd put hisear to the tube. 

"I have to see her on business, " said Clodd, rising; "you may as wellcome with me. They are still in the old place, Gough Square. "

Tommy was out, but Peter was expecting her every minute. 

Peter did not know Dick, but would not admit it. Forgetfulness was asign of age, and Peter still felt young. 

"I know your face quite well, " said Peter; "can't put a name to it, that's all. "

Clodd whispered it to him, together with information bringing history upto date. And then light fell upon the old lined face. He came towardsDick, meaning to take him by both hands, but, perhaps because he hadbecome somewhat feeble, he seemed glad when the younger man put his armsaround him and held him for a moment. It was un-English, and both ofthem felt a little ashamed of themselves afterwards. 

"What we want, " said Clodd, addressing Peter, "we three--you, I, and MissDanvers--is tea and cakes, with cream in them; and I know a shop wherethey sell them. We will call back for your father in half an hour. "Clodd explained to Miss Danvers; "he has to talk over a matter ofbusiness with Miss Hope. "

"I know, " answered the grave-faced little person. She drew Dick's facedown to hers and kissed it. And then the three went out together, leaving Dick standing by the window. 

"Couldn't we hide somewhere till she comes?" suggested Miss Danvers. "Iwant to see her. "

So they waited in the open doorway of a near printing-house till Tommydrove up. Both Peter and Clodd watched the child's face with someanxiety. She nodded gravely to herself three times, then slipped herhand into Peter's. 

Tommy opened the door with her latchkey and passed in.