Tommy and Co. ...................................................................................................................................................1

Jerome K. Jerome .....................................................................................................................................1

Peter Hope was tall and thin, cleanshaven but for a pair of side whiskers closecropped and terminating just

below the ear, with hair of the kind referred to by sympathetic barbers as "getting a little thin on the top, sir,"

but arranged with economy, that everywhere is poverty's true helpmate. About Mr. Peter Hope's linen, which

was white though somewhat frayed, there was a self assertiveness that invariably arrested the attention of

even the most casual observer. Decidedly there was too much of itits ostentation aided and abetted by the

retiring nature of the cut away coat, whose chief aim clearly was to slip off and disappear behind its owner's

back. "I'm a poor old thing," it seemed to say. "I don't shineor, rather, I shine too much among these

uptodate young modes. I only hamper you. You would be much more comfortable without me." To

persuade it to accompany him, its proprietor had to employ force, keeping fastened the lowest of its three

buttons. At every step, it struggled for its liberty. Another characteristic of Peter's, linking him to the past,

was his black silk cravat, secured by a couple of gold pins chained together. Watching him as he now sat

writing, his long legs encased in tightly strapped grey trousering, crossed beneath the table, the lamplight

falling on his freshcomplexioned face, upon the shapely hand that steadied the halfwritten sheet, a stranger

might have rubbed his eyes, wondering by what hallucination he thus found himself in presence seemingly of

some young beau belonging to the early 'forties; but looking closer, would have seen the many wrinkles.

The door opened, and a small, white face, out of which gleamed a pair of bright, black eyes, was thrust

The door opened wider, and the whole of the figure slid in and, closing the door behind it, sat itself down

"Which are youCentral News or Courier?" demanded Mr. Peter Hope, but without looking up from his

The bright, black eyes, which had just commenced an examination of the room by a careful scrutiny of the

smokegrimed ceiling, descended and fixed themselves upon the one clearly defined bald patch upon his

head that, had he been aware of it, would have troubled Mr. Peter Hope. But the full, red lips beneath the

That he had received no answer to his question appeared to have escaped the attention of Mr. Peter Hope. The

thin, white hand moved steadily to and fro across the paper. Three more sheets were added to those upon the

floor. Then Mr. Peter Hope pushed back his chair and turned his gaze for the first time upon his visitor.

To Peter Hope, hack journalist, long familiar with the genus Printer's Devil, small white faces, tangled hair,

dirty hands, and greasy caps were common objects in the neighbourhood of that buried rivulet, the Fleet. But

this was a new species. Peter Hope sought his spectacles, found them after some trouble under a heap of

newspapers, adjusted them upon his high, arched nose, leant forward, and looked long and up and down.

Over a tightfitting garibaldi of blue silk, excessively decollete, it wore what once had been a boy's

pepperandsalt jacket. A worsted comforter wound round the neck still left a wide expanse of throat

showing above the garibaldi. Below the jacket fell a long, black skirt, the train of which had been looped up

For answer, the figure, passing the greasy cap into its other hand, stooped down and, seizing the front of the

But by this time the skirt had practically disappeared, leaving to view a pair of muchpatched trousers, diving

into the righthand pocket of which the dirty hand drew forth a folded paper, which, having opened and

Mr. Peter Hope pushed up his spectacles till they rested on his eyebrows, and read aloud"'Steak and

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

The listener noted with surprise that the voicethough it told him as plainly as if he had risen and drawn

aside the red rep curtains, that outside in Gough Square the yellow fog lay like the ghost of a dead

"But, my good" Mr. Peter Hope, checking himself, sought again the assistance of his glasses. The glasses

Mr. Peter Hope stood up, and taking the strange figure by the shoulders, turned it round slowly twice,

apparently under the impression that the process might afford to him some clue. But it did not.

"Didn't say anything about housekeeper. Said you wanted somebody to do for youcook and clean the place

up. Heard 'em talking about it in the shop this afternoon. Old lady in green bonnet was asking Mother

"Mrs. Postwhistleyes, I did ask her to look out for someone for me. Why, do you know of anyone? Have

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

"Nono. I don't want muchsomeone clean and respectable. But why couldn't she come herself? Who is

"Why won't I do? I can make beds and clean roomsall that sort o' thing. As for cooking, I've got a natural

aptitude for it. You ask Emma; 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

Elizabeth thus appealed to, raised herself on her hind legs and dug her claws into her master's thigh. Mr.

Hope's trousers being thin, it was the most practical answer she could have given him.

"Done a lot of looking after other people for their benefit," continued Tommy. "Don't see why I shouldn't do

"My dearI do wish I knew whether you were a boy or a girl. Do you seriously 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 a shakedown and, say, sixpence a

"All right. No harm done." The dirty hand reached out towards the desk, and possessing itself again of

Hammond's Bill of Fare, commenced the operations necessary for bearing it away in safety.

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

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

"Yes, I've got some money," answered Tommy. "But I don't think much o' lodgings. Not a particular nice

"Serves you right!" growled Peter savagely. "How can anyone help treading on you when you will get just

The truth of the matter was that Peter was becoming very angry with himself. For no reason whatever, as he

told himself, his memory would persist in wandering to Ilford Cemetery, in a certain desolate corner of which

lay a fragile little woman whose lungs had been but ill adapted to breathing London fogs; with, on the top of

her, a still smaller and still more fragile mite of humanity that, in compliment to its only relative worth a

pennypiece, had been christened Thomasa name common enough in all conscience, as Peter had

reminded himself more than once. In the name of common sense, what had dead and buried Tommy Hope to

do with this affair? The whole thing was the veriest sentiment, and sentiment was Mr. Peter Hope's

abomination. Had he not penned articles innumerable pointing out its baneful influence upon the age? Had he

not always condemned it, wherever he had come across it in play or book? Now and then the suspicion had

crossed Peter's mind that, in spite of all this, he was somewhat of a sentimentalist himselfthings had

"You wait here till I come back," he growled, seizing the astonished Tommy by the worsted comforter and

spinning it into the centre of the room. "Sit down, and don't you dare to move." And Peter went out and

"Bit off his chump, ain't he?" remarked Tommy to Elizabeth, as the sound of Peter's descending footsteps

died away. People had a way of addressing remarks to Elizabeth. Something in her manner invited this.

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

Five minutes passed, maybe ten. Then Peter returned, accompanied by a large, restful lady, to whom

surpriseone felt it instinctivelyhad always been, and always would remain, an unknown quantity.

Mrs. Postwhistle compressed her lips and slightly tossed her head. It was the attitude of not illnatured

"That's right," said Mrs. Postwhistle; "I remember seeing 'er thereleastways, it was an 'er right enough

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

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

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

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

"Anyhow," said Peter, "one night can't do any harm. Tomorrow we can think what's to be done."

"Tomorrow"had always been Peter's lucky day. At the mere mention of the magic date his spirits invariably

rose. He now turned upon Tommy a countenance from which all hesitation was banished.

"Very well, Tommy," said Mr. Peter Hope, "you can sleep here to night. Go with Mrs. Postwhistle, and

"Oh, yes. You'll call it a school, I know. You ain't the first that's tried that on. It won't work." The bright,

black eyes were flashing passionately. "I ain't done any harm. I'm willing to work. I can keep myself. I

Had the bright, black eyes retained their expression of passionate defiance, Peter Hope might have retained

his common sense. Only Fate arranged that instead they should suddenly fill with wild tears. And at sight of

them Peter's common sense went out of the room disgusted, and there was born the history of many things.

"Don't be silly," said Peter. "You didn't understand. Of course I'm going to give you a trial. You're going to

'do' for me. I merely meant that we'd leave the details till tomorrow. Come, housekeepers don't cry."

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

"With a frockor a suit of trousersthrown in," suggested Mrs. Postwhistle. "It's generally done."

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

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

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

"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 both parties, had been arrived at with the

longtrained skirt; while an ample shawl 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. It burned brightly, diffusing strange odours.

"There's a travelling cap of mine hanging up in the passage. You can wear that for the present. Take this

halfsovereign and get me some cold meat and beer for supper. You'll find everything else you want in that

sideboard or else in the kitchen. Don't ask me a hundred questions, and don't make a noise," and Peter went

"Good idea, that halfsovereign," said Peter. "Shan't be bothered with 'Master Tommy' any more, don't

expect. Starting a nursery at our time of life. Madness." Peter's pen scratched and spluttered. Elizabeth kept

"Quarter of an hour," said Peter, looking at his watch. "Told you so." The article on which Peter was now

"Then why," said Peter, "why did he refuse that shilling? Artfulness," concluded Peter, "pure artfulness.

Elizabeth, old girl, we've got out of this business cheaply. Good idea, that halfsovereign." Peter gave vent to

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

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

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

Now, as he wrote, while with noiseless footsteps Tommy, unseen behind him, moved to and fro and in and

out the little kitchen, there came to Peter Hope this very curious experience: it felt to him as if for a long time

he had been illso ill as not even to have been aware of itand that now he was beginning to be himself

again; consciousness of things returning to him. This solidly furnished, long, oakpanelled room with its air

of oldworld dignity and reposethis sober, kindly room in which for more than half his life he had lived

and workedwhy had he forgotten it? It came forward greeting him with an amused smile, as of some old

friend long parted from. The faded photos, in stiff, wooden frames upon the chimneypiece, among them that

"God bless my soul!" said Mr. Peter Hope, pushing back his chair. "It's thirty years ago. How time does fly!

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

A bright idea occurred to Peter in the night. "Of course; why didn't I think of it before? Settle the question at

"Tommy," said Peter, as he sat himself down to breakfast the next morning. "Bytheby," asked Peter with a

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

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

"Not that you know of, perhaps; but one can be in a very bad way, Tommy, without being aware of it. I

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

"I don't want any of your uppishness," snapped Peter, who had wound himself up for the occasion to a degree

of assertiveness that surprised even himself. "If you are a thoroughly strong and healthy person, as I think you

are, I shall be very glad to retain your services. But upon that point I must be satisfied. It is the custom,"

explained Peter. "It is always done in good families. Run round to this address"Peter wrote it upon a leaf of

his notebook"and ask Dr. Smith to come and see me before he begins his round. You go at once, and don't

"That is the way to talk to that young personclearly," said Peter to himself, listening to Tommy's footsteps

Hearing the streetdoor slam, Peter stole into the kitchen and brewed himself a cup of coffee.

Dr. Smith, who had commenced life as Herr Schmidt, but who in consequence of difference of opinion with

his Government was now an Englishman with strong Tory prejudices, had but one sorrow: it was that

strangers would mistake him for a foreigner. He was short and stout, with bushy eyebrows and a grey

moustache, and looked so fierce that children cried when they saw him, until he patted them on the head and

addressed them as "mein leedle frent" in a voice so soft and tender that they had to leave off howling just to

wonder where it came from. He and Peter, who was a vehement Radical, had been cronies for many years,

and had each an indulgent contempt for the other's understanding, tempered by a sincere affection for one

"What tink you is de matter wid de leedle wench?" demanded Dr. Smith, Peter having opened the case. Peter

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 doso soon as I know."

Tears gathered in the doctor's small, round eyes. His absurd sentimentalism was the quality in his friend that

"Poor leedle waif!" murmured the softhearted old gentleman. "Id was de good Providence dat guided

"Providence be hanged!" snarled Peter. "What was my Providence doinglanding me with a gutterbrat to

"So like you Radicals," sneered the doctor, "to despise a fellow human creature just because id may not have

"I didn't send for you to argue politics," retorted Peter, controlling his indignation by an effort. "I want you to

"I don't know," confessed Peter. "If it's a boy, as I rather think it is, maybe I'll be able to find it a place in one

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

Peter, alone, paced to and fro the room, his hands behind his back, his ear on the alert to catch the slightest

Peter's eyes rested on the photo of the fragile little woman gazing down at him from its stiff frame upon the

chimneypiece. Thirty years ago, in this 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 to himself the same words.

The door opened. The stout doctor, preceded at a little distance by his watchchain, entered and closed the

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

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

"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 some looking after."

The doctor thrust his fierce face forward and tapped knowingly with his right forefinger the right side of his

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

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

"Tink it over," said the doctor. "A place is never home widout de leedle feet. We Englishmen love de home.

"I cannot help feeling," explained Peter, "a sense of duty in this matter. The child came to me. It is as if this

"With sentiment," went on Peter, "I have nothing to do; but duty duty is quite another thing." Peter, feeling

"The doctor, Tommy," said Peter, without looking up from his writing, "gives a very satisfactory account of

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

"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; but the name proved more difficult of

adjustment. A sweetfaced, laughing lady, known to fame by a title respectable and orthodox, appears an

honoured guest today at many a literary gathering. But the old fellows, pressing round, still call her

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

"What I propose, TommyI mean Jane," said Peter, "is that we should get in a woman to do just the mere

cooking. That will give you more time toto attend to other things, TommyJane, I mean."

"Then there are messages, Tommy. It would be a great advantage to me to have someone I could send on a

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

Peter put his foot down. "When I say a thing, I mean a thing. The sooner you understand that, the better. How

dare you argue with me! Fiddlededee!" For two pins Peter would have employed an expletive even

Poor Peter! His triumph was shortlived. Five minutes later, Tommy returned, clad in the long, black skirt,

supported by the cricket belt, the blue garibaldi cut decollete, the pepperandsalt jacket, the worsted

comforter, the red lips very tightly pressed, the long lashes over the black eyes moving very rapidly.

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

"Tommy" (no trace of severity), "sit down. Emma was quite right. Your cooking isis promising. As Emma

"My dear, I am a lonely old gentleman. I did not know it until until the other day. Now I cannot forget it

again. Wife and child died many years 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 to think. You crept to me out of the cruel fog,

awakened old dreams. Do not go away any more"perhaps Tommy, in spite of her fierce independence,

would have consented to be useful; and thus Peter might have gained his end at less cost of indigestion. But

the penalty for being an antisentimentalist is that you must not talk like this even to yourself. So Peter had to

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

"What's the sense of paying two to do the work of one? You would only be keeping me on out of charity."

"And you really think, TommyI should say Jane, you can manage thethe whole of it? You won't mind

being sent on a message, perhaps in the very middle of your cooking. It was that I was thinking of,

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

The fortnight that followed was a period of trouble to Peter, for Tommy, her suspicions having been aroused,

was sceptical of "business" demanding that Peter should dine with this man at the club, lunch with this editor

at the Cheshire Cheese. At once the chin would go up into the air, the black eyes cloud threateningly. Peter,

an unmarried man for thirty years, lacking experience, would under crossexamination contradict himself,

"Really," grumbled Peter to himself one evening, sawing at a mutton chop, "really there's no other word for

Peter that day had looked forward to a little dinner at a favourite restaurant, with his "dear old friend

Blenkinsopp, a bit of a gourmet, Tommythat means a man who likes what you would call elaborate

cooking!"forgetful at the moment that he had used up "Blenkinsopp" three days before for a farewell

supper, "Blenkinsopp" having to set out the next morning for Egypt. Peter was not facile at invention. Names

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

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 and more indispensable to Peter. Tommy was the first audience that for

thirty years had laughed at Peter's jokes; Tommy was the first public that for thirty years had been convinced

that Peter was the most brilliant journalist in Fleet Street; Tommy was the first anxiety that for thirty years

had rendered it needful that Peter each night should mount stealthily the creaking stairs, steal with shaded

candle to a bedside. If only Tommy wouldn't "do" for him! If only she could be persuaded to "do" something

"It isn't rot. Besides, I won't have you answer me like that. As a Devilthat means, Tommy, the unseen

person in the background that helps a journalist to do his workyou would be invaluable to me. It would pay

This appeared to be an argument that Tommy understood. Peter, with secret delight, noticed that the chin

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

"I told you so," exclaimed Peter triumphantly. "The methods are different, but the instinct required is the

"Quite right, Tommy. We will first see what you can do. Perhaps, after all, it may turn out that you are better

But the seed had fallen upon good ground. It was Tommy herself that manoeuvred her first essay in

journalism. A great man had come to Londonwas staying in apartments especially prepared for him in St.

James's Palace. Said every journalist in London to himself: "If I could obtain an interview with this Big Man,

what a big thing it would be for me!" For a week past, Peter had carried everywhere about with him a paper

headed: "Interview of Our Special Correspondent with Prince Blank," questions down lefthand column,

very narrow; space for answers righthand side, very wide. But the Big Man was experienced.

"I wonder," said Peter, spreading the neatly folded paper on the desk before him, "I wonder if there can be

any way of getting at himany dodge or trick, any piece of low cunning, any plausible lie that I haven't

"Old Man Martincalled himself Martiniwas just such another," commented Tommy. "Come pay time,

Saturday afternoon, you just couldn't get at himsimply 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 half a quid out of him that time. It did

"No," communed Peter to himself aloud, "I don't honestly think there can be any method, creditable or

discreditable, that I haven't tried." Peter flung the onesided interview into the wastepaperbasket, and

slipping his notebook into his pocket, departed to drink tea with a lady novelist, whose great desire, as stated

An hour later in the fog around St. James's Palace stood an Imp, clad in patched trousers and a

pepperandsalt jacket turned up about the neck, gazing with admiring eyes upon the sentry.

"Now, then, young seventeenandsixpence the soot," said the sentry, "what do you want?"

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

"Well," said the sentry, bringing his right leg into action for the purpose of relieving his left, "ain't 'ad much

to do with 'im myself, not person'ly, as yet. Oh, 'e ain't a bad sort when yer know 'im."

Had the sentry been a man of swift and penetrating observation which he wasn'the might have asked the

question in more serious a tone. For he would have remarked that the Imp's black eyes were resting lovingly

upon a rainwaterpipe, giving to a skilful climber easy access to the terrace underneath the Prince's

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

"Ah!" said the sentry, "that's what the papers say, is it?" The sentry's voice took unconsciously the accent of

those from whom no secret is hid. "I'll tell yer what yer can do," continued the sentry, enjoying an

unaccustomed sense of importance. The sentry glanced left, then right. "'E's a slipping off all by 'imself down

to Osborne by the 6.40 from Waterloo. Nobody knows it'cept, o' course, just a few of us. That's 'is way all

At Waterloo, Tommy inspected the 6.40 train. Only one compartment indicated possibilities, an extra large

one at the end of the coach next the guard's van. It was labelled "Reserved," and in the place of the usual

fittings was furnished with a table and four easy chairs. Having noticed its position, Tommy took a walk up

Twenty minutes later, Prince Blank stepped hurriedly across the platform, unnoticed save by half a dozen

obsequious officials, and entered the compartment reserved for him. The obsequious officials bowed. Prince

Prince Blank, who was a stout gentleman, though he tried to disguise the fact, seldom found himself alone.

When he did, he generally indulged himself in a little healthy relaxation. With two hours' run to Southampton

before him, free from all possibility of intrusion, Prince Blank let loose the buttons of his powerfully built

waistcoat, rested his bald head on the top of his chair, stretched his great legs across another, and closed his

For an instant it seemed to Prince Blank that a draught had entered into the carriage. As, however, the

sensation immediately passed away, he did not trouble to wake up. Then the Prince dreamed that somebody

was in the carriage with himwas sitting opposite to him. This being an annoying sort of dream, the Prince

opened his eyes for the purpose of dispelling it. There was somebody sitting opposite to hima very grimy

little person, wiping blood off its face and hands with a dingy handkerchief. Had the Prince been a man

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

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

"'Twas a bigger job than I'd reckoned on," admitted Tommy, seeking a dry inch in the smeared handkerchief,

and finding none. "But that don't matter," added Tommy cheerfully, "now I'm here."

"If you do not wish me to hand you over to the police at Southampton, you had better answer my questions,"

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

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

"There's a little bridge for signals just outside Waterloo. I could see that 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 are Prince Blank,

"I knew which was your carriageleastways, I guessed it; and as it came along, I did a drop." Tommy

spread out her arms and legs to illustrate the action. "The lamps, you know," explained Tommy, still dabbing

"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, and there you are. Bit of luck your other door not being locked. I hadn't

thought 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 to tell me, boy"

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 for many a long year to come the thought of her lost manhood tinged her voice with

"Umph!" said the Prince; "I have heard a good deal about the English girl. I was beginning to think it

Tommy obeyed. It was not altogether her way; but with those eyes beneath their shaggy brows bent upon her,

The terrible, small eyes flashed fire. But Tommy also had a pair of eyes. Before their blaze of indignation the

And at this point it occurred to the Prince, who being really a great man, had naturally a sense of humour, that

a conference conducted on these lines between the leading statesman of an Empire and an impertinent hussy

of, say, twelve years old at the outside, might end by becoming ridiculous. So the Prince took up his chair and

put it down again beside Tommy's, and employing skilfully his undoubted diplomatic gifts, drew from her bit

"I'm inclined, Miss Jane," said the Great Man, the story ended, "to agree with our friend Mr. Hope. I should

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

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

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

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

"I have added some instructions on the back of the last page," explained the Prince, "to which you will draw

Mr. Hope's particular attention. I would wish you to promise me, Miss Jane, never again to have recourse to

"My fault, I know," agreed the Prince. "There is not the least doubt as to which sex you belong to.

Nevertheless, I want you to promise me. Come," urged the Prince, "I have done a good deal for youmore

"All right," consented Tommy a little sulkily. Tommy hated making promises, because she always kept them.

"There is your Interview." The first Southampton platform lamp shone in upon the Prince and Tommy as they

stood facing one another. The Prince, who had acquired the reputation, not altogether unjustly, of an

illtempered and savage old gentleman, did a strange thing: taking the little, bloodsmeared face between his

paws, he kissed it. Tommy always remembered the smoky flavour of the bristly grey moustache.

"One thing more," said the Prince sternly"not a word of all this. Don't open your mouth to speak of it till

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 know why they were doing it. They looked at her and went away, and came

again and looked at her. And the more they thought about it, the more puzzled they became. Some of them

asked her questions, but what Tommy really didn't know, added to what she didn't mean to tell, was so

They washed and brushed her up and gave her an excellent supper; and putting her into a firstclass

compartment labelled "Reserved," sent her back to Waterloo, and thence in a cab to Gough Square, where she

arrived about midnight, suffering from a sense of self importance, traces of which to this day are still

Such and thus was the beginning of all things. Tommy, having talked for half an hour at the rate of two

hundred words a minute, had suddenly dropped her head upon the table, had been aroused with difficulty and

persuaded 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 dreamthe dream of

a wonderful new Journal, price one penny weekly, of which the Editor should come to be one Thomas Hope,

son of Peter Hope, its honoured Founder and Originator: a powerful Journal that should supply a longfelt

want, popular, but at the same time elevatinga 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. The

Elizabeth stopped purring and looked up surprised. Peter was laughing to himself.

Mrs. Postwhistle sat on a Windsorchair in the centre of Rolls Court. Mrs. Postwhistle, who, in the days of

her Hebehood, had been likened by admiring frequenters of the old Mitre in Chancery Lane to the ladies,

somewhat emaciated, that an English artist, since become famous, was then commencing to popularise, had

developed with the passing years, yet still retained a face of placid youthfulness. The two facts, taken in

conjunction, had resulted in an asset to her income not to be despised. The wanderer through Rolls Court this

summer's afternoon, presuming him to be familiar with current journalism, would have retired haunted by the

sense that the restfullooking lady on the Windsorchair was someone that he ought to know. Glancing

through almost any illustrated paper of the period, the problem would have been solved for him. A

photograph of Mrs. Postwhistle, taken quite recently, he would have encountered with this legend: "BEFORE

use of Professor Hardtop's certain cure for corpulency." Beside it a photograph of Mrs. Postwhistle, then

Arabella Higgins, taken twenty years ago, the legend slightly varied: "AFTER use," etc. The face was the

Mrs. Postwhistle had reached with her chair the centre of Rolls Court in course of following the sun. The

little shop, over the lintel of which ran: "Timothy Postwhistle, Grocer and Provision Merchant," she had left

behind her in the shadow. Old inhabitants of St. DunstanintheWest retained recollection of a gentlemanly

figure, always in a very gorgeous waistcoat, with Dundreary whiskers, to be seen occasionally there behind

the counter. All customers it would refer, with the air of a Lord High Chamberlain introducing debutantes, to

Mrs. Postwhistle, evidently regarding itself purely as ornamental. For the last ten years, however, no one had

noticed it there, and Mrs. Postwhistle had a facility amounting almost to genius for ignoring or

misunderstanding questions it was not to her taste to answer. Most things were suspected, nothing known. St.

"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 a strange

Mrs. Postwhistle was desirous for the arrival of a gentleman not usually awaited with impatience by the

ladies of Rolls Courtto wit, one William Clodd, rentcollector, whose day for St. Dunstan intheWest

"At last," said Mrs. Postwhistle, though without hope that Mr. Clodd, who had 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 'urry

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

Mr. Clodd was a short, thickset, bulletheaded young man, with ways that were bustling, and eyes that,

"Ah!" said Mr. Clodd admiringly, as he pocketed the six halfcrowns that the lady handed up to him. "If only

"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 rentcollector, when you come to think of 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 the lady"that lodger o' mine."

"Ah! don't pay, don't he? You just hand him over to me. I'll soon have it 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 should know I'd made a mistakethat it must be Friday. If I don't 'appen to be in at

"Wonder if his mother has got any more like him?" mused Mr. Clodd. "Could do with a few about this

neighbourhood. What is it you want to say about him, then? Merely to brag about him?"

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

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

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

"Here, you tell it your own way," suggested the bewildered Clodd. "If it was anyone else but you, I should

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

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

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

"I'll tell you what 'appened only last night," commenced Mrs. Postwhistle, seating herself the opposite side of

the lootable. "A letter came for 'im by the seven o'clock post. I'd seen 'im go out two hours before, and

though I'd been sitting in the shop the whole blessed time, 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 went in. If you'll believe me, 'e

was clinging with 'is arms and legs to the top of the bedsteadit's one of those oldfashioned, fourpost

things'is 'ead touching the ceiling. 'E 'adn't got too much clothes on, 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, started off

"It will go on for a week, that will," continued Mrs. Postwhistle "'e fancying 'imself a monkey. Last week

he was a tortoise, and was crawling about on his stomach with a teatray tied on to 'is back. 'E's as sensible as

most men, if that's saying much, the moment 'e's outside the front door; but in the 'ousewell, I suppose the

"Don't seem no hiding anything from you," Mrs. Postwhistle remarked Mr. Clodd in tones of admiration.

"Don't know what 'e would be like if 'e 'appened to fancy 'imself something really dangerous," answered Mrs.

Postwhistle. "I am a bit nervous of this new monkey game, I don't mind confessing to youthe things that

they do according to the picturebooks. Up to now, except for imagining 'imself a mole, and taking all his

meals underneath the carpet, it's been mostly birds and cats and 'armless sort o' things I 'aven't seemed to

"How did you get hold of him?" demanded Mr. Clodd. "Have much trouble in finding him, or did somebody

"Old Gladman, of Chancery Lane, the law stationer, brought 'im 'ere one evening about two months

agosaid 'e was a sort of distant relative of 'is, a bit soft in the 'ead, but perfectly 'armless wanted to put

'im with someone who wouldn't impose on 'im. Well, what between 'aving been empty for over five weeks,

the poor old gaby 'imself looking as gentle as a lamb, and the figure being reasonable, I rather jumped at the

idea; and old Gladman, explaining as 'ow 'e wanted the thing settled and done with, got me to sign a letter."

"No. But I can remember what it was. Gladman 'ad it all ready. So long as the money was paid punctual and

'e didn't make no disturbance and didn't fall sick, I was to go on boarding and lodging 'im for

seventeenandsixpence a week. It didn't strike me as anything to be objected to at the time; but 'e payin'

regular, as I've explained to you, and be'aving, so far as disturbance is concerned, more like a Christian

martyr than a man, well, it looks to me as if I'd got to live and die with '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 a disturbance," thought Mr. Clodd, "in which case, of course, you

"Yes," thought Mrs. Postwhistle, "and possibly also 'e may take it into what '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. "I know old Gladman; I'll have a talk with

"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 spend the rest of my days in a lunatic asylum of my own if I can 'elp it."

The July moon had thrown a silver veil over the grimness of Rolls Court when, five hours later, Mr. Clodd's

nailed boots echoed again upon its uneven pavement; but Mr. Clodd had no eye for moon or stars or

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

"First and foremost commenced," Mr. Clodd, as he laid aside his hat, "it is quite understood that you really do

want to get rid of him? What's that?" demanded Mr. Clodd, a heavy thud upon the floor above having caused

"'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 in Clare Market. 'E's rested one end upon the mantelpiece and tied the other to the

back of the easychair'is idea is to twine 'imself round it and go to sleep upon it. Yes, you've got it quite

"It is just as I thought," continued Mr. Clodd. "The old innocent he's Gladman's brotherinlaw, by the

wayhas got a small annuity. I couldn't get the actual figure, but I guess it's about sufficient to pay for his

keep and leave old Gladman, who is running him, a very decent profit. They don't want to send him to an

asylum. They can't say he's a pauper, 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 want the bother of looking after him

themselves. I talked pretty straight to the old manlet him see I understood the business; andwell, to cut a

long story short, I'm willing to take on the job, provided you really want to have done with it, and Gladman is

Mrs. Postwhistle went to the cupboard to get Mr. Clodd a drink. Another thud upon the floor aboveone

suggestive of exceptional velocityarrived at the precise moment when Mrs. Postwhistle, the tumbler level

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

"It's only for another night," comforted her Mr. Clodd. "I'll take him away some time tomorrow. Meanwhile,

if I were you, I should spread a mattress underneath that perch of his before I went to bed. I should like him

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

Early the next morning a fourwheeled cab drew up at the entrance to Rolls 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 of

Clodd's Lunatic, the curtainpole included; and there appeared again behind the fanlight of the little grocer's

shop the intimation: "Lodgings for a Single Man," which caught the eye a few days later of a weirdlooking,

lanky, rawboned laddie, whose language Mrs. Postwhistle found difficulty for a time in comprehending; and

that is why one sometimes meets today worshippers of Kail Yard literature wandering disconsolately about

St. DunstanintheWest, seeking Rolls Court, discomforted because it is no more. But that is the history of

the "Wee Laddie," and this of the beginnings of William Clodd, now Sir William Clodd, Bart., M.P.,

proprietor of a quarter of a hundred newspapers, magazines, and journals: "Truthful Billy" we called him

No one can say of Clodd that he did not deserve whatever profit his unlicensed lunatic asylum may have

brought him. A kindly man was William Clodd when indulgence in sentiment did not interfere with business.

"There's no harm in him," asserted Mr. Clodd, talking the matter over with one Mr. Peter Hope, journalist, of

Gough Square. "He's just a bit dotty, same as you or I might get with nothing to do and all day long to do it

in. Kid's play, that's all it is. The best plan, I find, is to treat it as a game and take a hand in it. Last week he

wanted to be a lion. I could see that was going to be awkward, he roaring for raw meat and thinking to prowl

about the house at night. Well, I didn't nag himthat'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 three china eggs I've bought him.

The summer came again. Clodd and his Lunatic, a mildlooking little old gentleman of somewhat clerical

cut, one often met with arminarm, bustling about the streets and courts that were the scene of Clodd's

rentcollecting labours. Their evident attachment to one another was curiously displayed; Clodd, the young

and red haired, treating his whitehaired, withered companion with fatherly indulgence; the other glancing

up from time to time into Clodd's face with a winning expression of infantile affection.

"We are getting much better," explained Clodd, the pair meeting Peter Hope one day at the corner of

Newcastle Street. "The more we are out in the open air, and the more we have to do and think about, the

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

"Clodd's a good sorta good sort," said Peter Hope, who, having in his time lived much alone, had fallen

into the habit of speaking his thoughts aloud; "but he's not the man to waste his time. I wonder."

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

"There's the annuity you've got to think of," said Clodd, whom his admirers of today (and they are many, for

he must be a millionaire by this 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 the fogs might do for him?"

Old Gladman seemed inclined to consider the question, but Mrs. Gladman, a brisk, cheerful little woman, had

"We've had what there is to have," said Mrs. Gladman. "He's seventythree. What's the sense of risking good

No one could sayno one ever did saythat Clodd, under the circumstances, did not do his best. Perhaps,

after all, nothing could have helped. The little old gentleman, at Clodd's suggestion, played at being a

dormouse and lay very still. If he grew restless, thereby bringing on his cough, Clodd, as a terrible black cat,

was watching to pounce upon him. Only by keeping very quiet and artfully pretending to be asleep could he

Doctor William Smith (ne Wilhelm Schmidt) shrugged his fat shoulders. "We can do noding. Dese fogs of

ours: id is de one ting dat enables the foreigner to crow over us. Keep him quiet. De dormouseid is a goot

That evening William Clodd mounted to the second floor of 16, Gough Square, where dwelt his friend, Peter

Mr. William Clodd's ambition was, and always had been, to be the owner or partowner of a paper. Today,

as I have said, he owns a quarter of a hundred, and is in negotiation, so rumour goes, for seven more. But

twenty years ago "Clodd and Co., Limited," was but in embryo. And Peter Hope, journalist, had likewise and

for many a long year cherished the ambition to be, before he died, the owner or partowner of a paper. Peter

Hope today owns nothing, except perhaps the knowledge, if such things be permitted, that whenever and

wherever his name is mentioned, kind thoughts arise unbidden that someone of the party will surely say:

"Dear old Peter! What a good fellow he was!" Which also may be in its way a valuable possession: who

Peter Hope was fortyseven, so he said, a dreamer and a scholar. William Clodd was threeandtwenty, a

born hustler, very wide awake. Meeting one day by accident upon an omnibus, when Clodd lent Peter, who

had come out without his purse, threepence to pay his fare with; drifting into acquaintanceship, each had

come to acquire a liking and respect for the other. The dreamer thought with wonder of Clodd's shrewd

practicability; the cute young man of business was lost in admiration of what seemed to him his old friend's

marvellous learning. Both had arrived at the conclusion that a weekly journal with Peter Hope as editor, and

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

Mr. William Clodd turned the handle and walked in. With the door still in his hand he paused to look round

the room. It was the first time he had seen it. His meetings hitherto with Peter Hope had been chance

rencontres in street or restaurant. Always had he been curious to view the sanctuary of so much erudition.

A large, oakpanelled room, its three high windows, each with a low, cushioned seat beneath it, giving on to

Gough Square. Thirty five years before, Peter Hope, then a young dandy with side whiskers closecropped

and terminating just below the ear; with wavy, brown hair, giving to his freshcomplexioned face an

appearance almost girlish; in cutaway blue coat, flowered waistcoat, black silk cravat secured by two gold

pins chained together, and tightly strapped grey trouserings, had, aided and abetted by a fragile little lady in

crinoline and muchflounced skirt, and bodice somewhat low, with corkscrew curls each movement of her

head set ringing, planned and furnished it in accordance with the sober canons then in vogue, spending

thereupon more than they should, as is to be expected from the young to whom the future promises all things.

The fine Brussels carpet! A little too bright, had thought the shaking curls. "The colours will tone down,

missma'am." The shopman knew. Only by the help of the round island underneath the massive Empire

table, by excursions into untrodden corners, could Peter recollect the rainbow floor his feet had pressed when

he was twentyone. The noble bookcase, surmounted by Minerva's bust. Really it was too expensive. But the

nodding curls had been so obstinate. Peter's silly books and papers must be put away in order; the curls did

not intend to permit any excuse for untidiness. So, too, the handsome, brass bound desk; it must be worthy

of the beautiful thoughts Peter would pen upon it. The great sideboard, supported by two such angry looking

mahogany lions; it must be strong to support the weight of silver clever Peter would one day purchase to

place upon it. The few oil paintings in their heavy frames. A solidly furnished, sober apartment; about it that

subtle atmosphere of dignity one finds but in old rooms long undisturbed, where one seems to read upon the

walls: "I, Joy and Sorrow, twain in one, have dwelt here." One item only there was that seemed out of place

among its grave surroundingsa guitar, hanging from the wall, ornamented with a ridiculous blue bow,

"I thought so," said the decided voice. "We got your note this afternoon. Mr. Hope will be back at eight. Will

you kindly hang up your hat and coat in the hall? You will find a box of cigars on the mantelpiece. Excuse

The owner of the decided voice went on writing. Clodd, having done as he was bid, sat himself in the

easychair before the fire and smoked. Of the person behind the desk Mr. Clodd could see but the head and

shoulders. It had black, curly hair, cut short. It's only garment visible below the white collar and red tie might

have been a boy's jacket designed 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 a compromise. Mr. Clodd remarked the long, drooping

"No," said Mr. Clodd to himself, "it's a boya cheeky young beggar, I should say."

The person at the desk, giving a grunt of satisfaction, gathered together sheets of manuscript and arranged

them; then, resting its elbows on the desk and taking its head between its hands, regarded Mr. Clodd.

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

"I beg your pardon," apologised the person at the desk. "I have got into a habit of staring at people. I know it's

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

"You see," explained the person at the desk, "everybody calls me Tommy, because that used to be my name.

The person at the desk pondered. "Well, if this scheme you and Mr. Hope have been talking about really

comes to anything, we shall be a good deal thrown together, you see, and then I expect you'll call me

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

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

"I understand," said Mr. Clodd. "And what do you think, Tommy, of the scheme? I may as well start calling

you Tommy, because, between you and me, I think the idea will come to something."

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

"You are staring again, Tommy," Clodd reminded her. "You'll have trouble breaking yourself of that habit, I

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

"If you are very clever Do you mind coming nearer to the lamp? I can't quite see you over there."

Clodd never could understand why he did itnever could understand why, from first to last, he always did

what Tommy wished him to do; his only consolation 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

The mercury of Clodd's conceit shot upward to a point that in the case of anyone less physically robust might

Clodd held out his hand. "We'll pull it through, Tommy. The Guv'nor shall find the literature; you and I will

And Peter Hope, entering at the moment, caught a spark from the light that shone in the eyes of William

Clodd and Tommy, whose other name was Jane, as, gripping hands, they stood with the desk between them,

laughing they knew not why. And the years fell from old Peter, and, again a boy, he also laughed he knew not

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

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

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

"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.

"What an odd mixture the man is! Kindno one could have been kinder to the 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

"I shall want you and the missis to come to the funeral, Gladman," said Mr. Clodd, as he swung into the

"Well, you three are his only relatives; it's only decent you should be present," urged Clodd. "Besides, there's

"You turn up at the funeral," Clodd told him, "and you'll learn all about it. Bonner's clerk will be there and

will bring it with him. Everything is going to be done comme il faut, as the French say."

"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,

Friday's ceremony was not a sociable affair. Mrs. Gladman spoke occasionally 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 expressed himself as thankful when it was over. He criticised it as the humpiest

funeral he had ever known; for a time he had serious thoughts of changing his profession.

The solicitor's clerk was waiting for the party on its return from Kensal Green. Clodd again offered

hospitality. Mr. Pincer this time allowed himself a glass of weak whiskyandwater, and sipped it with an air

of doing so without prejudice. The clerk had one a little stronger, Mrs. Gladman, dispensing with

consultation, declined shrilly for self and partner. Clodd, explaining that he always followed legal precedent,

mixed himself one also and drank "To our next happy meeting." Then the clerk read.

It was a short and simple will, dated the previous August. It appeared that the old gentleman, unknown to his

relatives, had died possessed of shares in a silver mine, once despaired of, now prospering. Taking them at

present value, they would produce a sum well over two thousand pounds. The old gentleman had bequeathed

five hundred pounds to his brotherinlaw, 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

"And you think you are going to pocket that one thousand to twelve hundred pounds. You really do?" he

asked Mr. Clodd, who, with legs stretched out before him, sat with his hands deep in his trousers pockets.

Mr. Gladman laughed, but without much lightening the atmosphere. "Upon my word, Clodd, you amuse

"You villain! You doubledyed villain!" screamed Mr. Gladman, suddenly changing his tone. "You think the

law is going to allow you to swindle honest men! You think we are going to sit still for you to rob us! That

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

"Dispute it!" he shrieked. "Do you dispute that you influenced him?dictated it to him word for word, made

the poor old helpless idiot sign it, he utterly incapable of even understanding"

"Don't chatter so much," interrupted Mr. Clodd. "It's not a pretty voice, yours. What I asked you was, do you

"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 go now, to catch our solicitor before he leaves his office."

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

"Sit down," suggested Mr. Clodd. "Let's try another one." Mr. Clodd turned to the clerk. "The previous one,

An equally short and simple document, it bequeathed three hundred pounds to Mr. William Clodd in

acknowledgment of kindnesses received, the residue to the Royal Zoological Society of London, the deceased

having been always interested in and fond of animals. The relatives, "Who have never shown me the slightest

affection or given themselves the slightest trouble concerning me, and who have already received

"I may mention," observed Mr. Clodd, no one else appearing inclined to break the silence, "that in suggesting

the Royal Zoological Society to my poor old friend as a fitting object for his benevolence, I had in mind a

very similar case that occurred five years ago. A bequest to them was disputed on the grounds that the testator

was of unsound mind. They had to take their case to the House of Lords before they finally won it."

"Anyhow," remarked Mr. Gladman, licking his lips, which were dry, "you won't get anything, Mr.

Cloddno, not even your threehundred pounds, clever as you think yourself. My brotherinlaw's money

Then Mr. Pincer rose and spoke slowly and clearly. "If there must be a lunatic connected with our family,

which I don't see why there should be, it seems to me to be you, Nathaniel Gladman."

"As for my poor old cousin Joe, he had his eccentricities, but that was all. I for one am prepared to swear that

he was of sound mind in August last and quite capable of making his own will. It seems to me that the other

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

"Oh! what's the use of quarrelling?" chirped in cheery Mrs. Gladman. "It's five hundred pounds we never

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

Mr. and Mrs. Gladman, on the strength of the five hundred pounds, went home 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 sixtynine pounds and a few shillings. The capital of the new

company, "established for the purpose of carrying on the business of newspaper publishers and distributors,

printers, advertising agents, and any other trade and enterprise affiliated to the same," was one thousand

pounds in one pound shares, fully paid up; of which William Clodd, Esquire, was registered proprietor of

four hundred and sixtythree; Peter Hope, M.A., of 16, Gough Square, of also four hundred and sixtythree;

Miss Jane Hope, adopted daughter of said Peter Hope (her real name nobody, herself included, ever having

known), and generally called Tommy, of three, paid for by herself after a battle royal with William Clodd;

Mrs. Postwhistle, of Rolls Court, of ten, presented by the promoter; Mr. Pincer, of the House of Commons,

also of ten (still owing for); Dr. Smith (ne Schmidt) of fifty; James Douglas Alexander Calder McTear

(otherwise the "Wee Laddie"), residing then in Mrs. Postwhistle's first floor front, of one, paid for by poem

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

Few are the ways of the West Central district that have changed less within the last halfcentury than Nevill's

Court, leading from Great New Street into Fetter Lane. Its north side still consists of the same quaint row of

small low shops that stood theredoing perhaps a little brisker businesswhen George the Fourth was

King; its southern side of the same three substantial houses each behind a strip of garden, pleasant by contrast

Out of the largest of these, passing through the garden, then well cared for, came one sunny Sunday morning,

some fifteen years before the commencement proper of this story, one Solomon Appleyard, pushing in front

of him a perambulator. At the brick wall surmounted by wooden railings that divides the garden from the

court, Solomon paused, hearing behind him the voice of Mrs. Appleyard speaking from the doorstep.

"If I don't see you again until dinnertime, I'll try and get on without you, understand. Don't think of nothing

Mrs. Appleyard retired into the darkness. Solomon, steering the perambulator carefully, emerged from

Nevill's Court without accident. The quiet streets drew Solomon westward. A vacant seat beneath the shade

"My boy," said Mr. Appleyard, speaking slowly, "when you've been mewed up with newspapers eighteen

hours a day for six days a week, you can do without 'em for a morning. Take 'em away. I want to forget the

Solomon, having assured himself that the party in the perambulator was still breathing, crossed his legs and

The exclamation had been wrung from Solomon Appleyard by the approach of a stout, short man clad in a

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

"You run about," said Hezekiah, addressing a youth of some four summers he had been leading by the hand.

"Don't you go out of my sight; and whatever you do, don't you do injury to those new clothes of yours, or

you'll wish you'd never been put into them. The truth is," continued Hezekiah to his friend, his sole surviving

son and heir being out of earshot, "the morning tempted me. 'Tain't often I get a bit of fresh air."

"The business," replied Hezekiah, "is going up by leaps and bounds leaps and bounds. But, of course, all

that means harder work for me. It's from six in the morning till twelve o'clock at night."

"There's nothing I know of," returned Solomon, who was something of a pessimist, "that's given away free

"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. Talk religion to themwhy, they laugh at you! What the world's coming to, I don't

"The printing business," responded the other, removing his pipe and speaking somewhat sadly, "the printing

business looks like being a big thing. Capital, of course, is what hampers meor, rather, the want of it. But

"Now, with Anne," replied Hezekiah, "it's all the other way pleasure, gaiety, a day at Rosherville or the

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

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

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

A voice from the perambulator beside him broke the thread of Solomon Appleyard's discourse. The sole

surviving son of Hezekiah Grindley, seeking distraction and finding none, had crept back unperceived. A

perambulator! A thing his experience told him out of which excitement in some form or another could

generally be obtained. You worried it and took your chance. Either it howled, in which case you had to run

for your life, followedand, unfortunately, overtaken nine times out of tenby a whirlwind of vengeance;

or it gurgled: in which case the heavens smiled and halos descended on your head. In either event you

escaped the deadly ennui that is the result of continuous virtue. Master Grindley, his star having pointed out

to him a peacock's feather lying on the ground, had, with one eye upon his unobservant parent, removed the

complicated coverings sheltering Miss Helvetia Appleyard from the world, and anticipating by a quarter of a

century the prime enjoyment of British youth, had set to work to tickle that lady on the nose. Miss Helvetia

Appleyard awakened, did precisely what the tickled British maiden of today may be relied upon to do under

corresponding circumstances: she first of all took swift and comprehensive survey of the male thing behind

the feather. Had he been displeasing in her eyes, she would, one may rely upon it, have anteceded the

behaviour in similar case of her descendant of todaythat is to say, have expressed resentment in no

uncertain terms. Master Nathaniel Grindley proving, however, to her taste, that which might have been

considered impertinence became accepted as a fit and proper form of introduction. Miss Appleyard smiled

Miss Appleyard had with the help of Grindley junior wriggled herself into a sitting posture. Grindley junior

continued his attentions, the lady indicating by signs the various points at which she was most susceptible.

"Pretty picture they make together, eh?" suggested Hezekiah in a whisper to 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, knocking the ashes from his pipe, arose.

"Don't know any reason myself why we shouldn't see a little more of one another than we do," suggested

"Give us a lookup one Sunday afternoon," suggested Solomon. "Bring the youngster with you."

Solomon Appleyard and Hezekiah Grindley had started life within a few months of one another some

fiveandthirty years before. Likewise within a few hundred yards of one another, Solomon at his father's

bookselling and printing establishment on the east side of the High Street of a small Yorkshire town;

Hezekiah at his father's grocery shop upon the west side, opposite. Both had married farmers' daughters.

Solomon's natural bent towards gaiety Fate had corrected by directing his affections to a partner instinct with

Yorkshire shrewdness; and with shrewdness go other qualities that make for success rather than for

happiness. Hezekiah, had circumstances been equal, might have been his friend's rival for Janet's capable and

saving hand, had not sweettempered, laughing Annie Glossopdirected by Providence to her moral

welfare, one must presumefallen in love with him. Between Jane's virtues and Annie's three hundred

golden sovereigns Hezekiah had not hesitated a moment. Golden sovereigns were solid facts; wifely virtues,

by a seriousminded and strongwilled husband, could be instilledat all events, lightheartedness

suppressed. The two men, Hezekiah urged by his own ambition, Solomon by his wife's, had arrived in

London within a year of one another: Hezekiah to open a grocer's shop in Kensington, which those who

should have known assured him was a hopeless neighbourhood. But Hezekiah had the instinct of the

moneymaker. Solomon, after looking about him, had fixed upon the roomy, substantial house in Nevill's

That was ten years ago. The two friends, scorning delights, living laborious days, had seen but little of one

another. Lighthearted Annie had borne to her dour partner two children who had died. Nathaniel George,

with the luck supposed to wait on number three, had lived on, and, inheriting fortunately the temperament of

his mother, had brought sunshine into the gloomy rooms above the shop in High Street, Kensington. Mrs.

Mrs. Appleyard's guardian angel, prudent like his protege, had waited till Solomon's business was well

established before despatching the stork to Nevill's Court, with a little girl. Later had sent a boy, who, not

finding the close air of St. Dunstan to his liking, had found his way back again; thus passing out of this story

and all others. And there remained to carry on the legend of the Grindleys and the Appleyards only Nathaniel

George, now aged five, and Janet Helvetia, quite a beginner, who took lift seriously.

There are no such things as facts. Narrowminded folksurveyors, auctioneers, and such likewould have

insisted that the garden between the old Georgian house and Nevill's Court was a strip of land one hundred

and eighteen feet by ninetytwo, containing a laburnum tree, six laurel bushes, and a dwarf deodora. To

Nathaniel George and Janet Helvetia it was the land of Thule, "the furthest boundaries of which no man has

reached." On rainy Sunday afternoons they played in the great, gloomy pressroom, where silent ogres,

standing motionless, stretched out iron arms to seize them as they ran. Then just when Nathaniel George was

eight, and Janet Helvetia four and a half, Hezekiah launched the celebrated "Grindley's Sauce." It added a

relish to chops and steaks, transformed cold mutton into a luxury, and swelled the head of Hezekiah

Grindleywhich was big enough in all conscience as it wasand shrivelled up his little hard heart. The

Grindleys and the Appleyards visited no more. As a sensible fellow ought to have seen for himself, so

thought Hezekiah, the Sauce had altered all things. The possibility of a marriage between their children,

things having remained equal, might have been a pretty fancy; but the son of the great Grindley, whose name

in threefoot letters faced the world from every hoarding, would have to look higher than a printer's daughter.

Solomon, a sudden and vehement convert to the principles of mediaeval feudalism, would rather see his only

child, granddaughter of the author of The History of Kettlewell and other works, dead and buried than

married to a grocer's son, even though he might inherit a fortune made out of poisoning the public with a

mixture of mustard and sour beer. It was many years before Nathaniel George and Janet Helvetia met one

Hezekiah S. Grindley, a short, stout, and pompous gentleman, sat under a palm in the gorgeously furnished

drawingroom of his big house at Notting Hill. Mrs. Grindley, a thin, faded woman, the despair of her

dressmaker, sat as near to the fire as its massive and imposing copper outworks would permit, and shivered.

Grindley junior, a fairhaired, wellshaped youth, with eyes that the other sex found attractive, leant with his

hands in his pockets against a scrupulously robed statue of Diana, and appeared uncomfortable.

"I'm making the moneymaking it hand over fist. All you'll have to do will be to spend it," Grindley senior

"I'm not so sure of it," was his father's opinion. "You've got to prove yourself worthy to spend it. Don't you

think I shall be content to have slaved all these years merely to provide a brainless young idiot with the

means of selfindulgence. I leave my money to somebody worthy of me. Understand, sir?somebody

Mrs. Grindley commenced a sentence; Mr. Grindley turned his small eyes upon her. The sentence remained

"If it is anything worth hearingif it is anything that will assist the discussion, let's have it." Mr. Grindley

waited. "If not, if you yourself do not consider it worth finishing, why have begun it?"

Mr. Grindley returned to his son and heir. "You haven't done too well at schoolin fact, your school career

"You had better," advised him his father; "because I warn you, your whole future depends upon it. You know

me. You've got to be a credit to me, to be worthy of the name of Grindleyor the name, my boy, is all you'll

Old Grindley meant it, and his son knew that he meant it. The old Puritan 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 moneymaking, a grievous sin in his eyes. Grindley junior fully

intended to do well at Oxford, and might have succeeded. In accusing himself of lack of cleverness, he did

himself an injustice. He had brains, he had energy, he had character. Our virtues can be our stumblingblocks

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 and sweetness of it, Oxford snobbishness went down.

The Sauce, against the earnest counsel of its own advertisement, was forgotten; the pickles passed by. To

escape the natural result of his popularity would have needed a stronger will than young Grindley possessed.

For a time the true state of affairs was hidden from the eye of Grindley senior. To "slack" it this term, with

the full determination of "swotting" it the next, is always easy; the difficulty beginning only with the new

term. Possibly with luck young Grindley might have retrieved his position and covered up the traces of his

folly, but for an unfortunate accident. Returning to college with some other choice spirits at two o'clock in the

morning, it occurred to young Grindley that trouble might be saved all round by cutting out a pane of glass

with a diamond ring and entering his rooms, which were on the groundfloor, by the window. That, in

mistake for his own, he should have selected the bedroom of the College Rector was a misfortune that might

have occurred to anyone who had commenced the evening on champagne and finished it on whisky. Young

Grindley, having been warned already twice before, was "sent down." And then, of course, the whole history

of the three wasted years came out. Old Grindley in his study chair having talked for half an hour at the top of

his voice, chose, partly by reason of physical necessity, partly by reason of dormant dramatic instinct, to

"I'll give you one chance more, my boy, and one only. I've tried you as a gentlemanperhaps that was my

"As a grocer, sirgrocergrocer, a man who stands behind a counter in a white apron and his

shirtsleeves; who sells tea and sugar and candied peel and suchlike things to customersold ladies, little

girls; who rises at six in the morning, takes down the shutters, sweeps out the shop, cleans the windows; who

has half an hour for his dinner of corned beef and bread; who puts up the shutters at ten o'clock at night, tidies

up the shop, has his supper, and goes to bed, feeling his day has not been wasted. I meant to spare you. I was

wrong. You shall go through the mill as I went through it. If at the end of two years you've done well with

your time, learned somethinglearned to be a man, at all eventsyou can come to me and thank me."

"I'm afraid, sir," suggested Grindley junior, whose handsome face during the last few minutes had grown very

white, "I might not make a very satisfactory grocer. You see, sir, I've had no experience."

"I am glad you have some sense," returned his father drily. "You are quite right. Even a grocer's business

requires learning. It will cost me 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 you something to live on. It shall be more than I had at

your agewe'll say a pound a week. After that I shall expect you to keep yourself."

Grindley senior rose. "You need not give me your answer till the evening. You are of age. I have no control

over you unless you are willing 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, felt very much inclined to go his own; but,

hampered on the other hand by the sweetness of disposition he had inherited from his mother, was unable to

withstand the argument of that lady's tears, so that evening accepted old Grindley's terms, asking only as a

favour that the scene of his probation might be in some outofthe way neighbourhood where there would

"I have thought of all that," answered his father. "My object isn't to humiliate you more than is necessary for

your good. The shop I have already selected, on the assumption that you would submit, is as quiet and

outoftheway as you could wish. It is in a turning off Fetter Lane, where you'll see few other people than

printers and caretakers. You'll lodge with a woman, a Mrs. Postwhistle, who seems a very sensible person.

She'll board you and lodge you, and every Saturday you'll receive a postoffice order for six shillings, out of

which you'll find yourself in clothes. You can take with you sufficient to last you for the first six months, but

no more. At the end of the year you can change if you like and go to another shop, or make your own

arrangements with Mrs. Postwhistle. If all is settled, you go there tomorrow. You go out of this house

Mrs. Postwhistle was a large, placid lady of philosophic temperament. Hitherto the little grocer's shop in

Rolls Court, Fetter Lane, had been easy of management by her own unaided efforts; but the neighbourhood

was rapidly 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 crowd of customers. Mrs.

Postwhistle, of a bulk not to be moved quickly, had, after mature consideration, conquering a natural

Young Grindley, alighting from a fourwheeled cab in Fetter Lane, marched up the court, followed by a

weakkneed wastrel staggering under the weight of a small box. In the doorway of the little shop, young

The weakkneed wastrel let fall the box with a thud upon the floor. Mrs. Postwhistle looked her new assistant

"Oh!" said Mrs. Postwhistle. "Well, I shouldn't 'ave felt instinctively it must be you, not if I'd 'ad to pick you

Grindley senior had selected wisely. Mrs. Postwhistle's theory was that although very few people in this

world understood their own business, they understood it better than anyone else could understand it for them.

If handsome, welleducated young gentlemen, who gave shillings to wastrels, felt they wanted to become

smart and capable grocers' assistants, that was their affair. Her business was to teach them their work, and, for

her own sake, to see that they did it. A month went by. Mrs. Postwhistle found her new assistant

hardworking, willing, somewhat clumsy, but with a smile and a laugh that transformed mistakes, for which

another would have been soundly rated, into welcome variations of the day's monotony.

"If you were the sort of woman that cared to make your fortune," said one William Clodd, an old friend of

Mrs. Postwhistle's, young Grindley having descended into the cellar to grind coffee, "I'd tell you what to do.

Take a bunshop somewhere in the neighbourhood of a girls' school, and put that assistant of yours in the

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

"Jones, the agent, sent 'im to me all in a 'urry. An assistant is what I really wanted, not an apprentice; but the

"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 been under discussion by the neighbourhood.

Mrs. Postwhistle was approached upon the subject. Grindley junior, eager for anything that might bring

Within two months the arrangements were complete. Grindley junior divided his time between dispensing

groceries and despatching telegrams and letters, and was grateful for the change.

Grindley junior's mind was fixed upon the fashioning of a cornucopia to receive a quarter of a pound of

moist. The customer, an extremely young lady, was seeking to hasten his operations by tapping incessantly

with a penny on the counter. It did not hurry him; it only worried him. Grindley junior had not acquired

facility in the fashioning of cornucopiasthe vertex would invariably become unrolled at the last moment,

allowing the contents to dribble out on to the floor or counter. Grindley junior was sweettempered as a rule,

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

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

An older lady, standing behind the extremely young lady and holding a telegramform in her hand, looked

The fifth time was more successful. The extremely young lady went out, commenting upon the waste of time

always resulting when boys were employed to do the work of men. The older lady, a haughty person, handed

"Digniori, not digniorus," commented Grindley junior, correcting the word, "datur digniori, dative singular."

Grindley junior, still irritable from the struggle with the cornucopia, spoke sharply.

The haughty lady withdrew her eyes from a spot some ten miles beyond the back of the shop, where hitherto

Grindley junior looked up and immediately, to his annoyance, felt that he was blushing. Grindley junior

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

The haughty young lady counted out the money and departed. Grindley junior, peeping from behind a tin of

Abernethy biscuits, noticed that as she passed the window she turned and looked back. She was a very pretty,

haughty lady. Grindley junior rather admired dark, level brows and finely cut, tremulous lips, especially when

combined with a mass of soft, brown hair, and a rich olive complexion that flushed and paled as one looked

"Might send that telegram off if you've nothing else to do, and there's no particular reason for keeping it

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

Grindley junior sat down to the machine. The name and address of the sender was Helvetia Appleyard,

Three days passedsingularly empty days they appeared to Grindley junior. On the fourth, Helvetia

Appleyard had occasion to despatch another telegramthis time entirely in English.

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

"I picked up a little at school. It was a phrase I happened to remember," confessed Grindley junior,

"I am always sorry," said Miss Appleyard, "when I see anyone content with the lower life whose talents

might, perhaps, fit him for the higher." Something about the tone and manner of Miss Appleyard reminded

Grindley junior of his former Rector. Each seemed to have arrived by different roads at the same

philosophical aloofness from the world, tempered by chastened interest in human phenomena. "Would you

An unseen little rogue, who was enjoying himself immensely, whispered to Grindley junior to say nothing

"Will you let me help you?" asked Miss Appleyard. And the simple and heartfelt gratitude with which

Grindley junior closed upon the offer proved to Miss Appleyard how true it is that to do good to others is the

Miss Appleyard had come prepared for possible acceptance. "You had better begin with this," thought Miss

Appleyard. "I have marked the passages that you should learn by heart. Make a note of anything you do not

understand, and I will explain it to you when when next I happen to be passing."

Grindley junior took the bookBell's Introduction to the Study of the Classics, for Use of Beginnersand

held it between both hands. Its price was ninepence, but Grindley junior appeared to regard it as a volume of

"It will be hard work at first," Miss Appleyard warned him; "but you must persevere. I have taken an interest

And Miss Appleyard, feeling all the sensations of a Hypatia, departed, taking light with her and forgetting to

pay for the telegram. Miss Appleyard belonged to the class that young ladies who pride themselves on being

tiresomely ignorant and foolish sneer at as "bluestockings"; that is to say, possessing brains, she had felt the

necessity of using them. Solomon Appleyard, widower, a sensible old gentleman, prospering in the printing

business, and seeing no necessity for a woman regarding herself as nothing but a doll, a somewhat

uninteresting plaything the newness once worn off, thankfully encouraged her. Miss Appleyard had returned

from Girton wise in many things, but not in knowledge of the world, which knowledge, too early acquired,

does not always make for good in young man or woman. A serious little virgin, Miss Appleyard's ambition

was to help the human race. What more useful work could have come to her hand than the raising of this poor

but intelligent young grocer's assistant unto the knowledge and the love of higher things. That Grindley junior

happened to be an exceedingly good looking and charming young grocer's assistant had nothing to do with

the matter, so Miss Appleyard would have informed you. In her own reasoning she was convinced that her

interest in him would have been the same had he been the least attractive of his sex. That there could be

Miss Appleyard, a convinced Radical, could not conceive the possibility of a grocer's assistant regarding the

daughter of a welltodo printer in any other light than that of a graciously condescending patron. That there

could be danger to herself! you would have been sorry you had suggested the idea. The expression of lofty

Miss Appleyard's judgment of mankind was justified; no more promising pupil could have been selected. It

was really marvellous the progress made by Grindley junior, under the tutelage of Helvetia Appleyard. His

earnestness, his enthusiasm, it quite touched the heart of Helvetia Appleyard. There were many points, it is

true, that puzzled Grindley junior. Each time the list of them grew longer. But when Helvetia Appleyard

explained them, all became clear. She marvelled herself at her own wisdom, that in a moment made darkness

luminous to this young man; his rapt attention while she talked, it was most encouraging. The boy must

surely be a genius. To think that but for her intuition he might have remained wasted in a grocer's shop! To

rescue such a gem from oblivion, to polish it, was surely the duty of a conscientious Hypatia. Two

visitsthree visits a week to the little shop in Rolls Court were quite 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 the blackbirds' amorous whistle, the thrushes'

invitation to delight; the old gardens, hidden behind narrow ways. Nathaniel George and Janet Helvetia

would rest upon a seat, no living creature within sight, save perhaps a passing policeman or some dissipated

cat. Janet Helvetia would expound. Nathaniel George, his fine eyes fixed on hers, seemed never to tire of

There were times when Janet Helvetia, to reassure herself as to the maidenly correctness of her behaviour,

had to recall quite forcibly the fact that she was the daughter of Solomon Appleyard, owner of the big

printing establishment; and he a simple grocer. One day, raised a little in the social scale, thanks to her,

Nathaniel George would marry someone in his own rank of life. Reflecting upon the future of Nathaniel

George, Janet Helvetia could not escape a shade of sadness. It was difficult to imagine precisely the wife she

would have chosen for Nathaniel George. She hoped he would do nothing foolish. Rising young men so often

One Sunday morning in late autumn, they walked and talked in the shady garden of Lincoln's Inn. Greek they

thought it was they had been talking; as a matter of fact, a much older language. A young gardener was

watering flowers, and as they passed him he grinned. It was not an offensive grin, rather a sympathetic grin;

but Miss Appleyard didn't like being grinned at. What was there to grin at? Her personal appearance? some

gaucherie in her dress? Impossible. No lady in all St. Dunstan was ever more precise. She glanced at her

companion: a cleanlooking, wellgroomed, welldressed youth. Suddenly it occurred to Miss Appleyard

that she and Grindley junior were holding each other's hand. Miss Appleyard was justly indignant.

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

"I love you! I adore you! I worship you!" poured forth young Grindley, forgetful of all Miss Appleyard had

Miss Appleyard paled visibly. For a grocer's assistant to dare to fall in love with her, especially after all the

"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 the world had ever produced, upon the noblest and most beautiful maiden that

Not at first could Miss Appleyard entirely grasp it; not till hours later, when she sat alone in her own room,

where, fortunately for himself, Grindley junior was not, did the whole force and meaning of the thing come

home to her. It was a large room, taking up half of the top story of the big Georgian house in Nevill's Court;

"For a yearfor nearly a whole year," said Miss Appleyard, addressing the 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 out of reach. The bust of William

"I suppose I should," mused Miss Appleyard, "if he had told me at firstas he ought to have told meof

course I should naturally have had nothing more to do with him. I suppose," mused Miss Appleyard, "a man

in love, if he is really in love, doesn't quite know what he's doing. I suppose one ought to make allowances.

And then Grindley junior's guardian angel must surely have slipped into the room, for Miss Appleyard,

irritated beyond endurance at the philosophical indifference of the bust of William Shakespeare, turned away

from it, and as she did so, caught sight of herself in the lookingglass. Miss Appleyard approached the glass a

little nearer. A woman's hair is never quite as it should be. Miss Appleyard, standing before the glass, began,

she knew not why, to find reasons excusing Grindley junior. After all, was not forgiveness an excellent thing

in woman? None of us are quite perfect. The guardian angel of Grindley junior seized the opportunity.

That evening Solomon Appleyard sat upright in his chair, feeling confused. So far as he could understand it, a

certain young man, a grocer's assistant, but not a grocer's assistantbut that, of course, was not his fault, his

father being an old brutehad behaved most abominably; but not, on reflection, as badly as he might have

done, and had acted on the whole very honourably, taking into consideration the fact 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

what else she could have done, she being not at all sure whether she really cared for him or whether she

didn't; that everything had been quite proper and would not have happened if she had known it; that

everything was her fault, except most things, which weren't; but that of the two she blamed herself entirely,

seeing that she could not have guessed anything of the kind. And did he, Solomon Appleyard, think that she

ought to be very angry and never marry anybody else, or was she justified in overlooking it and engaging

"You mustn't think, Dad, that I meant to deceive you. I should have told you at the beginningyou know I

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

Miss Appleyard experienced one of the surprises of her life. Never before to her recollection had her father

thwarted a single wish of her life. A widower for the last twelve years, his chief delight had been to humour

her. His voice, as he passionately swore that never with his consent should his daughter marry the son of

Hezekiah Grindley, sounded strange to her. Pleadings, even tears, for the first time in her life proved fruitless.

Here was a pretty kettle of fish! That Grindley junior should defy his own parent, risk possibly the loss of his

inheritance, had seemed to both a not improper proceeding. When Nathaniel George had said with fine

enthusiasm: "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!" Janet Helvetia, though she had expressed disapproval of such unfilial attitude,

had in secret sympathised. But for her to disregard the wishes of her own doting father was not to be thought

Perhaps one Peter Hope, residing in Gough Square hard by, might help young folks in sore dilemma with

wise counsel. Peter Hope, editor and part proprietor of Good Humour, one penny weekly, was much

"A good fellow, old Hope," Solomon would often impress upon his managing clerk. "Don't worry him more

Peter Hope sat at his desk, facing Miss Appleyard. Grindley junior sat on the cushioned seat beneath the

middle window. Good Humour's subeditor stood before the fire, her hands behind her back.

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

"On the other hand," continued Miss Appleyard, "nothing shall induce me to marry a man I do not love."

Miss Appleyard thought the probabilities were that she would end by becoming a female missionary.

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

The opinion of the House, clearly though silently expressed, was that Peter Hope's experience, as regarded

"I shall go straight to the Governor," explained Grindley junior, "and tell him that I consider myself engaged

for life to Miss Appleyard. I know what will happenI know the sort of idea he has got into his head. He

Peter Hope was unable to see how Grindley junior's disappearance into the wilds of Africa was going to assist

Grindley junior's view was that the wilds of Africa would afford a fitting background to the passing away of a

Peter Hope had a suspicion that Grindley junior had for the moment parted company with that sweet

reasonableness that otherwise, so Peter Hope felt sure, was Grindley junior's guiding star.

"I mean it, sir," reasserted Grindley junior. "I am" Grindley junior was about to add "well educated"; but

divining that education was a topic not pleasing at the moment to the ears of Helvetia Appleyard, had tact

enough to substitute "not a fool. I can earn my own living; and I should like to get away."

"Now, TommyI mean Jane," warned her Peter Hope. He always called her Jane in company, unless he was

"I was only going to say" urged the subeditor in tone of one suffering injustice.

"I quite know what you were going to say," retorted Peter hotly. "I can see it by your chin. You are going to

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

"going to say we are in want of some help in the office. You know we are. And that if Mr. Grindley would

"And how would that help us?" demanded Peter. "Even if the boy were soso headstrong, so unfilial as to

defy his father, who has worked for him all these years, how would that remove the obstacle of Mr.

"If, on his declaring to his father that nothing will ever induce him to marry any other woman but Miss

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

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

But what chance had ever the wisdom of Age against the enthusiasm of Youth, reaching for its object. Poor

Peter, expostulating, was swept into the conspiracy. Grindley junior the next morning stood before his father

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

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

"Why do you irate me?" asked Grindley senior. "I have thought of nothing but you these fiveandtwenty

"I don't, sir," answered Grindley junior. "I can't say I love you. It did not seem to me youyou wanted it.

But I like you, sir, and I respect you. Andand I'm sorry to have to hurt you, sir."

"And you are determined to give up all your prospects, all the money, for the sake of thisthis 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 more obstinate if things had been going all right. The Lord has chastened me."

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

"What's it got to do with you?" snapped his father. "You've cut yourself adrift from it. You leave me now I

Grindley junior, not knowing what to say, put his arms round the little old 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

second floor. It was late in the evening when Solomon opened the door and called upstairs to Janet Helvetia

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

Later, the troublesome Sauce disappeared entirely, cut out by newer flavours. Grindley junior studied the

printing business. It almost seemed as if old Appleyard had been waiting but for this. Some six months later

they found him dead in his countinghouse. Grindley junior became the printer and publisher of Good

To regard Miss Ramsbotham as a marriageable quantity would have occurred to few men. Endowed by

Nature with every feminine quality calculated to inspire liking, she had, on the other hand, been disinherited

of every attribute calculated to excite passion. An ugly woman has for some men an attraction; the proof is

ever present to our eyes. Miss Ramsbotham was plain but pleasant looking. Large, healthy in mind and body,

capable, selfreliant, and cheerful, blessed with a happy disposition together with a keen sense of humour,

there was about her absolutely nothing for tenderness to lay hold of. An ideal wife, she was an impossible

sweetheart. Every man was her friend. The suggestion that any man could be her lover she herself would

Not that she held love in despite; for such folly she was possessed of far too much sound sense. "To have

somebody in love with you somebody strong and good," so she would confess to her few close intimates, a

dreamy expression clouding for an instant her broad, sunny face, "why, it must be just lovely!" For Miss

Ramsbotham was prone to American phraseology, and had even been at some pains, during a six months'

journey through the States (whither she had been commissioned by a conscientious trade journal seeking

reliable information concerning the condition of female textile workers) to acquire a slight but decided

American accent. It was her one affectation, but assumed, as one might feel certain, for a practical and

"You can have no conception," she would explain, laughing, "what a help I find it. 'I'm 'Muriken' is the 'Civis

Romanus sum' of the modern woman's world. It opens every door to us. If I ring the bell and say, 'Oh, if you

please, I have come to interview Mr. So andSo for suchandsuch a paper,' 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. SoandSo will see

me or not. But if I say, 'That's my keerd, young man. You tell your master Miss Ramsbotham is waiting for

him in the showroom, and will take it real kind if he'll just bustle himself,' the poor fellow walks backwards

till he stumbles against the bottom stair, and my gentleman comes down with profuse apologies for having

"'And to be in love with someone," she would continue, "someone great that one could look up to and honour

and worshipsomeone that would fill one's whole life, make it beautiful, make every day worth living, I

think that would be better still. To work merely for one's self, to think merely for one's self, it is so much less

Then, at some such point of the argument, Miss Ramsbotham would jump up from her chair and shake

"Why, what nonsense I'm talking," she would tell herself, and her listeners. "I make a very fair income, have

a host of friends, and enjoy every hour of my life. I should like to have been pretty or handsome, of course;

but no one can have all the good things of this world, and I have my brains. At one time, perhaps, yes; but

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 her bosom friend. "Man for the purposes of

the race has been given two kinds of love, between which, according to his opportunities and temperament,

he is free to choose: he can fall down upon his knees and adore physical beauty (for Nature ignores entirely

our mental side), or he can take delight in circling with his protecting arm the weak and helpless. Now, I

make no appeal to either instinct. I possess neither the charm nor beauty to attract"

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

"My dear," cheerfully replied Miss Ramsbotham, "it would have to be an eye of the range and capacity Sam

Weller frankly owned up to not possessinga patent doublemillion magnifying, capable of seeing through

a deal board and round the corner sort of eyeto detect any beauty in me. And I am much too big and

"I believe," remembered Miss Ramsbotham, "if it does not sound like idle boasting, I might have had a

husband, of a kind, if Fate had not compelled me to save his life. I met him one year at Huyst, a small, quiet

wateringplace on the Dutch coast. He would walk always half a step behind me, regarding me out of the

corner of his eye quite approvingly at times. He was a widowera good little man, devoted to his three

charming children. They took an immense fancy to me, and I really think I could have got on with him. I am

very adaptable, as you know. But it was not to be. He got out of his depth one morning, and unfortunately

there was no one within distance but myself who could swim. I knew what the result would be. You

remember Labiche's comedy, Les Voyage de Monsieur Perrichon? Of course, every man hates having had his

life saved, after it is over; and you can imagine how he must hate having it saved by a woman. But what was I

to do? In either case he would be lost to me, whether I let him drown or whether I rescued him. So, as it really

made no difference, I rescued him. He was very grateful, and left the next morning.

"It is my destiny. No man has ever fallen in love with me, and no man ever will. I used to worry myself about

it when I was younger. As a child I hugged to my bosom for years an observation I had overheard an aunt of

mine whisper to my mother one afternoon as they sat knitting and talking, not thinking I was listening. 'You

never can tell,' murmured my aunt, keeping her eyes carefully fixed upon her needles; 'children change so. I

have known the plainest girls grow up into quite beautiful women. I should not worry about it if I were

younot yet awhile.' My mother was 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 the ugly duckling of

Andersen's fairytale, and every morning on waking I would run straight to my glass and try to persuade

myself that the feathers of the swan were beginning at last to show themselves." Miss Ramsbotham laughed,

a genuine laugh of amusement, for of self pity not a trace 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 twenty years ago than now. In these romances the heroine was never what you

would call beautiful, unless in common with the hero you happened to possess exceptional powers of

observation. But she was better than that, she was good. I do not regard as time wasted the hours I spent

studying this quaint literature. It helped me, I am sure, to form habits that have since been of service to me. I

made a point, when any young man visitor happened to be staying with us, of rising exceptionally early in the

morning, so that I always appeared at the breakfasttable fresh, cheerful, and carefully dressed, with, when

possible, a dew besprinkled flower in my hair to prove that I had already been out in the garden. The effort,

as far as the young man visitor was concerned, was always thrown away; as a general rule, he came down late

himself, and generally too drowsy to notice anything much. But it was excellent practice for me. I wake now

at seven o'clock as a matter of course, whatever time I go to bed. I made my own dresses and most of our

cakes, and took care to let everybody know it. Though I say it who should not, I play and sing rather well. I

certainly was never a fool. I had no little brothers and sisters to whom to be exceptionally devoted, but I had

my cousins about the house as much as possible, and damaged their characters, if anything, by

overindulgence. My dear, it never caught even a curate! I am not one of those women to run down men; I

think them delightful creatures, and in a general way I find them very intelligent. But where their hearts are

concerned it is the girl with the frizzy hair, who wants two people to help her over the stile, that is their idea

of an angel. No man could fall in love with me; he couldn't if he tried. That I can understand; but" Miss

Ramsbotham sunk her voice to a more confidential tone"what I cannot understand is that I have never

"You have given the explanation yourself," suggested the bosom friendone Susan 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. When I think about it, I feel quite

Whether it was this idea, namely, that it was her duty, or whether it was that passion came to her, unsought,

somewhat late in life, and therefore all 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, clearseeing woman fell to sighing and

blushing, starting and stammering at the sounding of a name, as though for all the world she had been a

Susan Fossett, her bosom friend, brought the strange tidings to Bohemia one foggy November afternoon, her

opportunity being a tea party given by Peter Hope to commemorate the birthday of his adopted daughter and

subeditor, Jane Helen, commonly called Tommy. The actual date of Tommy's birthday was known only to

the gods; but out of the London mist to wifeless, childless Peter she had come the evening of a certain

November the eighteenth, and therefore by Peter and his friends November the eighteenth had been marked

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

"You mean 'to whom.' The preeposition governs the objective case," corrected her James Douglas McTear,

commonly called "The Wee Laddie," who himself wrote English better than he spoke it.

"I don't know to whom," replied Miss Ramsbotham's bosom friend, sipping tea and breathing indignation.

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

"If it had been to anything sensible," was Miss Fossett's opinion, "she would not have kept me in the dark

about it, to spring it upon me like a bombshell. I've never had so much as a hint from her until I received this

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

The teadrinkers left their cups and gathered round her. "Dear Susan," read Miss Fossett, "I shall not be able

to be with you to morrow. Please get 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, I can hardly REALISE it. I hardly seem to

know where I am. Have just made up my mind to run down to Yorkshire and see grandmamma. I must do

SOMETHING. I must TALK to SOMEBODY andforgive me, dearbut you ARE so sensible, and just

nowwell I don't FEEL sensible. Will tell you all about it when I see younext week, perhaps. You must

TRY to like him. He is SO handsome and REALLY cleverin his own way. Don't scold me. I never thought

it possible that ANYONE could be so happy. It's quite a different sort of happiness to ANY other sort of

happiness. I don't know how to describe it. Please ask Burcot to let me off the antequarian congress. I feel I

should do it badly. I am so thankful he has NO relativesin 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 my chinchilla at your rooms? Don't be angry with me. I should have told you if I had known. In

"It's dated from Marylebone Road, and yesterday afternoon she did leave her chinchilla in my rooms, which

makes me think it really must be from Mary Ramsbotham. Otherwise I should have my doubts," added Miss

"Id is love!" was the explanation of Dr. William Smith, his round, red face illuminated with poetic ecstasy.

"Love," retorted Susan Fossett, "doesn't transform an intelligent, educated woman into a person who writes a

letter all in jerks, underlines every other word, spells antiquarian with an 'e,' and Burcott's name, whom she

has known for the last eight years, with only one 't.' The woman has gone stark, staring mad!"

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

"One of the most sensible women I have ever met," commented William Clodd. "Lucky man, whoever he is.

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

"For goodness' sake," suggested Miss Fossett to Tommy, "give that man something to eat or drink. That's the

worst of people who take up grammar late in life. Like all converts, they become fanatical."

"She's a ripping good sort, is Mary Ramsbotham," exclaimed Grindley junior, printer and publisher of Good

Humour. "The marvel to me is that no man hitherto has ever had the sense to want her."

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

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

"What a happy saying that is," smiled Mrs. Grindley junior. "I wonder sometimes how conversation was ever

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

"You needn't talk about her as if she was a monsterI mean were," corrected herself Miss Fossett, with a

hasty glance towards the Wee Laddie. "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 of brain. Id is de noble man dat is

"We must hope for the best," counselled Peter. "I cannot believe that a clever, capable woman like Mary

"From what I have seen," replied Miss Fossett, "it's just the clever peopleas regards this particular

Unfortunately Miss Fossett's judgment proved to be correct. On being introduced a fortnight later to Miss

Ramsbotham's fiance, the impulse of Bohemia was to exclaim, "Great Scott! Whatever in the name of"

Then on catching sight of Miss Ramsbotham's transfigured face and trembling hands Bohemia recollected

itself in time to murmur instead: "Delighted, I'm sure!" and to offer mechanical congratulations. Reginald

Peters was a pretty but remarkably foolishlooking lad of about twoandtwenty, with curly hair and

receding chin; but to Miss Ramsbotham evidently a promising Apollo. Her first meeting with him had taken

place at one of the many political debating societies then in fashion, attendance at which Miss Ramsbotham

found useful for purposes of journalistic "copy." Miss Ramsbotham, hitherto a Radical of pronounced views,

he had succeeded under three months in converting into a strong supporter of the Gentlemanly Party. His

feeble political platitudes, which a little while before she would have seized upon merrily to ridicule, she now

sat drinking in, her plain face suffused with admiration. Away from him and in connection with those

subjectssomewhat numerousabout which he knew little and cared less, she retained her sense and

humour; but in his presence she remained comparatively speechless, gazing up into his somewhat watery

Her absurd adorationirritating beyond measure to her friends, and which even to her lover, had he

possessed a grain of sense, would have appeared ridiculousto Master Peters was evidently a gratification.

Of selfish, exacting nature, he must have found the services of this brilliant woman of the world of much

practical advantage. Knowing all the most interesting people in London, it was her pride and pleasure to

introduce him everywhere. Her friends put up with him for her sake; to please her made him welcome, did

their best to like him, and disguised their failure. The free entry to a places of amusement saved his limited

purse. Her influence, he had instinct enough to perceive, could not fail to be of use to him in his profession:

that of a barrister. She praised him to prominent solicitors, took him to tea with judges' wives, interested

examiners on his behalf. In return he overlooked her many disadvantages, and did not fail to let her know it.

"I do so wish I were younger and better looking," she sighed to the bosom friend. "For myself, I don't mind; I

have got used to it. But it is so hard on Reggie. He feels it, I know he does, though he never openly

"He would be a cad if he did," answered Susan Fossett, who having tried conscientiously for a month to

tolerate the fellow, had in the end declared her inability even to do more than avoid open expression of

cordial dislike. "Added to which I don't quite see of what use it would be. You never told him you were

"I told him, my dear," replied Miss Ramsbotham, "the actual truth. I don'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 made a

difference. You have no idea how good he is. He assured me he had engaged himself to me with his eyes

open, and that there was no need to dwell upon unpleasant topics. It is so wonderful to me that he should care

"Yes, he's the type that would attract them, I daresay," agreed Susan Fossett. "But are you quite sure that he

"My dear," returned Miss Ramsbotham, "you remember Rochefoucauld's definition. 'One loves, the other

consents to be loved.' If he will only let me do that I shall be content. It is more than I had any right to

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

Bohemia grew day by day more indignant and amazed. Young Peters was not even a gentleman. All the little

offices of courtship he left to her. It was she who helped him on with his coat, and afterwards adjusted her

own cloak; she who carried the parcel, she who followed into and out of the restaurant. Only when he thought

anyone was watching would he make any attempt to behave to her with even ordinary courtesy. He bullied

her, contradicted her in public, ignored her openly. Bohemia fumed with impotent rage, yet was bound to

confess that so far as Miss Ramsbotham herself was concerned he had done more to make her happy than had

ever all Bohemia put together. A tender light took up its dwelling in her eyes, which for the first time it was

noticed were singularly deep and expressive. The blood, of which she possessed if anything too much, now

came and went, so that her cheeks, in place of their insistent red, took on a varied pink and white. Life had

The woman began to grow younger. She put on flesh. Sex, hitherto dormant, began to show itself;

femininities peeped out. New tones, suggesting possibilities, crept into her voice. Bohemia congratulated

Then Master Peters spoiled everything by showing a better side to his nature, and, careless of all worldly

considerations, falling in love himself, honestly, with a girl at the bun shop. He did the best thing under the

circumstances that he could have done: told Miss Ramsbotham the plain truth, and left the decision in her

Miss Ramsbotham acted as anyone who knew her would have foretold. Possibly, in the silence of her

delightful little fourroomed flat over the tailor's shop in Marylebone Road, her sober, worthy maid

dismissed for a holiday, she may have shed some tears; but, if so, no trace of them was allowed to mar the

peace of mind of Mr. Peters. She merely thanked him for being frank with her, and by a little present pain

saving them both a future of disaster. It was quite understandable; she knew he had never really been in love

with her. She had thought him the type of man that never does fall in love, as the word is generally

understoodMiss Ramsbotham did not add, with anyone except himselfand had that been the case, and

he content merely to be loved, they might have been happy together. As it waswell, it was fortunate he had

Mr. Peters was genuinely grateful, as well he might be, and would consent to any suggestion that Miss

Ramsbotham might make; felt he had behaved shabbily, was very much ashamed of himself, would be

guided in all things by Miss Ramsbotham, whom he should always regard as the truest of friends, and so on.

Miss Ramsbotham's suggestion was this: Mr. Peters, no more robust of body than of mind, had been speaking

for some time past of travel. Having nothing to do now but to wait for briefs, why not take this opportunity of

visiting his only welltodo relative, a Canadian farmer. Meanwhile, let Miss Peggy leave the bun shop and

take up her residence in Miss Ramsbotham's flat. Let there be no engagementmerely an understanding.

The girl was pretty, charming, good, Miss Ramsbotham felt sure; butwell, a little education, a little

training in manners and behaviour would not be 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 affair would be easier, would it not?

There followed further expressions of eternal gratitude. Miss Ramsbotham swept all such aside. It would be

pleasant to have a bright young girl to live with her; teaching, moulding such an one would be a pleasant

And thus it came to pass that Mr. Reginald Peters disappeared for a while from Bohemia, to the regret of but

few, and there entered into it one Peggy Nutcombe, as pretty a child as ever gladdened the eye of man. She

had wavy, flaxen hair, a complexion that might have been manufactured from the essence of wild roses, the

nose that Tennyson bestows upon his miller's daughter, and a mouth worthy of the Lowther Arcade in its

days of glory. Add to this the quick grace of a kitten, with the appealing helplessness of a baby in its first

short frock, and you will be able to forgive Mr. Reginald Peters his faithlessness. Bohemia looked from one

to the otherfrom the fairy to the womanand ceased to blame. That the fairy was as stupid as a camel, as

selfish as a pig, and as lazy as a nigger Bohemia did not know; norso long as her figure and complexion

remained what it waswould its judgment have been influenced, even if it had. I speak of the Bohemian

But that is just what her figure and complexion did not do. Mr. Reginald Peters, finding his uncle old, feeble,

and inclined to be fond, deemed it to his advantage to stay longer than he had intended. Twelve months went

by. Miss Peggy was losing her kittenish grace, was becoming lumpy. A couple of pimplesone near the

righthand corner of her rosebud mouth, and another on the lefthand side of her tiptilted nosemarred her

baby face. At the end of another six months the men called her plump, and the women fat. Her walk was

degenerating into a waddle; stairs caused her to grunt. She took to breathing with her mouth, and Bohemia

noticed that her teeth were small, badly coloured, and uneven. The pimples grew in size and number. The

cream and white of her complexion was merging into a general yellow. A certain greasiness of skin was

manifesting itself. Babyish ways in connection with a woman who must have weighed about eleven stone

struck Bohemia as incongruous. Her manners, judged alone, had improved. But they had not improved her.

They did not belong to her; they did not fit her. They sat on her as Sunday broadcloth on a yokel. She had

learned to employ her "h's" correctly, and to speak good grammar. This gave to her conversation a painfully

artificial air. The little learning she had absorbed was sufficient to bestow upon her an angry consciousness of

Meanwhile, Miss Ramsbotham had continued upon her course of rejuvenation. At twentynine she had

looked thirtyfive; at thirtytwo she looked not a day older than fiveandtwenty. Bohemia felt that should

she retrograde further at the same rate she would soon have to shorten her frocks and let down her hair. A

nervous excitability had taken possession of her that was playing strange freaks not only with her body, but

with her mind. What it gave to the one it seemed to take from the other. Old friends, accustomed to enjoy

with her the luxury of plain speech, wondered in vain what they had done to offend her. Her desire was now

towards new friends, new faces. Her sense of humour appeared to be departing from her; it became unsafe to

jest with her. On the other hand, she showed herself greedy for admiration and flattery. Her former chums

stepped back astonished to watch brainless young fops making their way with her by complimenting her upon

her blouse, or whispering to her some trite nonsense about her eyelashes. From her work she took a good

percentage of her brain power to bestow it on her clothes. Of course, she was successful. Her dresses suited

her, showed her to the best advantage. Beautiful she could never be, and had sense enough to know it; but a

charming, distinguishedlooking woman she had already become. Also, she was on the high road to

It was during the process of this, her metamorphosis, that Peter Hope one evening received a note from her

announcing her intention of visiting him the next morning at the editorial office of Good Humour. She added

Punctually to the time appointed Miss Ramsbotham arrived. Miss Ramsbotham, contrary to her custom,

opened conversation with the weather. Miss Ramsbotham was of opinion that there was every possibility of

The Paperfor a paper not yet two years oldwas doing well. "We expect very shortlyvery shortly

"I confess," smiled Peter Hope, "it doesn't seem to be exactly a rightangled corner. One reaches it as one

thinks. But it takes some getting roundwhat I should describe as a cornery corner."

"Popular features," agreed Peter guardedly, scenting temptation, "are not to be despised, provided one steers

"A Ladies' Page!" suggested Miss Ramsbotham"a page that should make the woman buy it. The women,

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

"We give her literature and the drama, poetry, fiction, the higher politics, the"

"I know, I know," interrupted Miss Ramsbotham, who of late, among other failings new to her, had

developed a tendency towards impatience; "but she gets all that in half a dozen other papers. I have thought it

out." Miss Ramsbotham leaned further across the editorial desk and sunk her voice unconsciously to a

confidential whisper. "Tell her the coming fashions. Discuss the question whether hat or bonnet makes you

look the younger. 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!" laughed Miss Ramsbotham in answer to Peter's shocked expression; "one cannot

reform the world and human nature all at once. You must appeal to people's folly in order to get them to

listen to your wisdom. Make your paper a success first. You can make it a power afterwards."

"But," argued Peter, "there are already such paperspapers devoted toto that sort of thing, and to nothing

"At sixpence!" replied the practical Miss Ramsbotham. "I am thinking of the lower middleclass woman who

has twenty pounds a year to spend on dress, and who takes twelve hours a day to think about it, poor creature.

Poor Peter groanedold Peter, the dreamer of dreams. But for thought of Tommy! 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 to

his distinguishedlooking temptress, "Get thee behind me, Miss Ramsbotham. 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 is money in it. But what of that? Shall I

for mere dross sell my editorial soul, turn the temple of the Mighty Pen into a den ofof milliners! Good

morning, Miss Ramsbotham. I grieve for you. I grieve for you as for a fellowworker once inspired by

devotion to a noble calling, who has fallen from her high estate. Good morning, madam."

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

"Everything would depend upon how it was done," agreed Miss Ramsbotham. "Badly done, the idea would

"I think," said Peter, "no one could do it better. I am sorry you should wish to do itthat is all."

"I could not in conscience," explained Miss Ramsbotham, "take payment from both sides. I am going to make

a good deal out of it. I am going to make out of it at least three hundred a year, and they will be glad to pay

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

Peter had risen. He laid his shapely, white old hand upon the woman's shoulder. "Tell me when you want to

Thus it was arranged. Good Humour gained circulation andof more importance yetadvertisements; and

Miss Ramsbotham, as she had predicted, the reputation of being one of the bestdressed women in London.

Her reason for desiring such reputation Peter Hope had shrewdly guessed. Two months later his suspicions

were confirmed. Mr. Reginald Peters, his uncle being dead, was on his way back to England.

His return was awaited with impatience only by the occupants of the little flat in the Marylebone Road; and

between these two the difference of symptom was marked. Mistress Peggy, too stupid to comprehend the

change that had been taking place in her, looked forward to her lover's arrival with delight. Mr. Reginald

Peters, independently of his profession, was in consequence of his uncle's death a man of means. Miss

Ramsbotham's tutelage, which had always been distasteful to her, would now be at an end. She would be a

"lady" in the true sense of the wordaccording to Miss Peggy's definition, a woman with nothing to do but

eat and drink, and nothing to think of but dress. Miss Ramsbotham, on the other hand, who might have

anticipated the homecoming of her quondam admirer with hope, exhibited a strange condition of alarmed

The meetingwhether by design or accident was never knowntook place at an evening party given by the

proprietors of a new journal. The circumstance was certainly unfortunate for poor Peggy, whom Bohemia

began to pity. Mr. Peters, knowing both women would be there and so on the lookout, saw in the distance

among the crowd of notabilities a superbly millinered, tall, graceful woman, whose face recalled sensations

he could not for the moment place. Chiefly noticeable about her were her exquisite neck and arms, and the air

of perfect breeding with which she moved, talking and laughing, through the distinguished, fashionable

throng. Beside her strutted, nervously aggressive, a vulgar, fat, pimply, shapeless young woman, attracting

universal attention by the incongruity of her presence in the room. On being greeted by the graceful lady of

the neck and arms, the conviction forced itself upon him that this could be no other than the once Miss

Ramsbotham, plain of face and indifferent of dress, whose very appearance he had almost forgotten. On

being greeted gushingly as "Reggie" by the sallowcomplexioned, overdressed young woman he bowed

with evident astonishment, and apologised for a memory that, so he assured the lady, had always been to him

Of course, he thanked his starsand Miss Ramsbothamthat the engagement had never been formal. So far

as Mr. Peters was concerned, there was an end to Mistress Peggy's dream of an existence of everlasting

breakfasts in bed. Leaving the Ramsbotham flat, she returned to the maternal roof, and there a course of hard

work and plain living tended greatly to improve her figure and complexion; so that in course of time, the gods

smiling again upon her, she married a foreman printer, and passes out of this story.

Meanwhile, Mr. Reginald Petersolder, and the possessor, perhaps, of more senselooked at Miss

Ramsbotham with new eyes, and now not tolerated but desired her. Bohemia waited to assist at the happy

termination of a pretty and somewhat novel romance. Miss Ramsbotham had shown no sign of being

attracted elsewhere. Flattery, compliment, she continued 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 of wooing. But to all such she turned a laughing face.

"I like her for it," declared Susan Fossett; "and he has improved there was room for itthough I wish it

could have been some other. There was Jack Herringit would have been so much more suitable. Or even

Joe, in spite of his size. But it's her wedding, not ours; and she will never care 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

"I may as well keep on the Letter to Clorinda," thought Miss Ramsbotham. "I have got into the knack of it.

"I know. I could not in conscience, as I told you, take from both sides. For the futurewell, they have said

"Yes. I am tired of it myself," laughed Miss Ramsbotham. "Life isn't long enough to be a welldressed

By others, less sympathetic than old Peter, vigorous attempts were made to solve the mystery. Miss

Ramsbotham took enjoyment in cleverly evading these tormentors. Thwarted at every point, the gossips

turned to other themes. Miss Ramsbotham found interest once again in the higher branches of her calling;

became again, by slow degrees, the sensible, frank, 'good sort' that Bohemia had known, liked,

Years later, to Susan Fossett, the case was made clear; and through Susan Fossett, a nice enough woman but

"Love," said Miss Ramsbotham to the bosom friend, "is not regulated by reason. As you say, there were

many men I might have married with much more hope of happiness. But I never cared for any other man. He

was not intellectual, was egotistical, possibly enough selfish. The man should always be older than the

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

"If she had been my own child," continued Miss Ramsbotham, "I could not have done morein the

beginning. I tried to teach her, to put some sense into her. Lord! the hours I wasted on that little idiot! I

marvel at my own patience. She was nothing but an animal. An animal! she had only an animal's vices. To

eat and drink and sleep was her idea of happiness; her one ambition male admiration, and she hadn't character

enough to put sufficient curb upon her stomach to retain it. I reasoned with her, I pleaded with her, I bullied

her. Had I persisted I might have succeeded by sheer physical and mental strength in restraining her from

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 the morning, by insisting upon her taking exercise, by regulating every particle of

food and drink she put into her mouth, I kept the little beast in good condition for nearly three months. Then,

I had to go away into the country for a few days; she swore she would obey my instructions. When I came

back I found she had been in bed most of the time, and had been living chiefly on chocolate and cakes. She

was curled up asleep in an easychair, snoring with her mouth wide open, when I opened the door. And at

sight of that picture the devil came to me and tempted me. Why should I waste my time, wear myself out in

mind and body, that the man I loved should marry a pig because it looked like an angel? 'Six months'

wallowing according to its own desires would reveal it in its true shape. So from that day I left it to itself. No,

worse than that I don't want to spare myselfI encouraged her. I let her have a fire in her bedroom, and

half her meals in bed. I let her have chocolate with tablespoonfuls of cream floating on the top: she loved it.

She was never really happy except when eating. I let her order her own meals. I took a fiendish delight

watching the dainty limbs turning to shapeless fat, the pinkandwhite complexion growing blotchy. It is

flesh that man loves; brain and mind and heart and soul! he never thinks of them. This little pinkandwhite

sow could have cut me out with Solomon himself. Why should such creatures have the world arranged for

them, and we not be allowed to use our brains in our own defence? But for my lookingglass I might have

resisted the temptation, but I always had something of the man in me: the sport of the thing appealed to me. I

suppose it was the nervous excitement under which I was living that was changing me. All my sap was going

into my body. Given sufficient time, I might meet her with her own weapons, animal against animal. Well,

you know the result: I won. There was no doubt about his being in love with me. His eyes would follow me

round the room, feasting on me. I had become a fine animal. Men desired me, Do you know why I refused

him? He was in every way a better man than the silly boy I had fallen in love with; but he came back with a

couple of false teeth: I saw the gold setting one day when he opened his mouth to laugh. I don't say for a

moment, my dear, there is no such thing as lovelove pure, ennobling, worthy of men and women, its roots

in the heart and nowhere else. But that love I had missed; and the other! I saw it in its true light. I had fallen

in love with him because he was a pretty, curlyheaded boy. He had fallen in love with Peggy when she was

pinkandwhite and slim. I shall always see the look that came into his eyes when she spoke to him at 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 fixed upon my arms and neck. I had got to grow old in time, brown skinned, and wrinkled.

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

"I know," said Miss Ramsbotham. "He will have to like me thin and in these clothes, just because I am nice,

He never came along. A charming, brighteyed, whitehaired lady occupies alone a little flat in the

Marylebone Road, looks in occasionally at the Writers' Club. She is still Miss Ramsbotham.

Baldheaded gentlemen feel young again talking to her: she is so sympathetic, so bigminded, so

understanding. Then, hearing the clock strike, tear themselves from her with a sigh, and return homesome

The most popular member of the Autolycus Club was undoubtedly Joseph Loveredge. Small, chubby,

cleanshaven, his somewhat longish, soft, brown hair parted in the middle, strangers fell into the error of

assuming him to be younger than he really was. It is on record that a leading lady novelistaccepting her at

her own estimateirritated by his polite but firm refusal to allow her entrance into his own editorial office

without appointment, had once boxed his ears, under the impression that he was his own officeboy. Guests

to the Autolycus Club, on being introduced to him, would give to him kind messages to take home to his

father, with whom they remembered having been at school together. This sort of thing might have annoyed

anyone with less sense of humour. Joseph Loveredge would tell such stories himself, keenly enjoying the

jestwas even suspected of inventing some of the more improbable. Another fact tending to the popularity

of Joseph Loveredge among all classes, over and above his amiability, his wit, his genuine kindliness, and his

neverfailing fund of good stories, was that by care and inclination he had succeeded in remaining a

bachelor. Many had been the attempts to capture him; nor with the passing of the years had interest in the

sport shown any sign of diminution. Well over the frailties and distempers so dangerous to youth, of staid and

sober habits, with an ever increasing capital invested in sound securities, together with an everincreasing

income from his pen, with a tastefully furnished house overlooking Regent's Park, an excellent and devoted

cook and housekeeper, and relatives mostly settled in the Colonies, Joseph Loveredge, though

inexperienced girls might pass him by with a contemptuous sniff, was recognised by ladies of maturer

judgment as a prize not too often dangled before the eyes of spinsterhood. Old foxesso we are assured by

kindhearted country gentlemen rather enjoy than otherwise a day with the hounds. However that may be,

certain it is that Joseph Loveredge, confident of himself, one presumes, showed no particular disinclination to

the chase. Perhaps on the whole he preferred the society of his own sex, with whom he could laugh and jest

with more freedom, to whom he could tell his stories as they came to him without the trouble of having to

turn them over first in his own mind; but, on the other hand, Joey made no attempt to avoid female company

whenever it came his way; and then no cavalier could render himself more agreeable, more unobtrusively

attentive. Younger men stood by, in envious admiration of the ease with which in five minutes he would

establish himself on terms of cosy friendship with the brilliant beauty before whose gracious coldness they

had stood shivering for months; the daring with which he would tuck under his arm, so to speak, the prettiest

girl in the room, smooth down as if by magic her hundred prickles, and tease her out of her overwhelming

sense of her own selfimportance. The secret of his success was, probably, that he was not afraid of them.

Desiring nothing from them beyond companionableness, a reasonable amount of appreciation for his

jokeswhich without being exceptionally stupid they would have found it difficult to withholdwith just

sufficient information and intelligence to make conversation interesting, there was nothing about him by

which they could lay hold of him. Of course, that rendered them particularly anxious to lay hold of him.

Joseph's lady friends might, roughly speaking, be divided into two groups: the unmarried, who wanted to

marry him to themselves; and the married, who wanted to marry him to somebody else. It would be a social

disaster, the latter had agreed among themselves, if Joseph Loveredge should never wed.

"And when one thinks of the sort of men that ARE married, it does seem such a pity!"

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

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

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

"I shouldn't be surprised myself a bit if something came of it with Bridget. She's a dear girl, Bridgetso

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

The unmarried kept their thoughts more to themselves. Each one, upon reflection, saw ground for thinking

that Joseph Loveredge had given proof of feeling preference for herself. The irritating thing was that, on

further reflection, it was equally clear that Joseph Loveredge had shown signs of preferring most of the

Meanwhile Joseph Loveredge went undisturbed upon his way. At eight o'clock in the morning Joseph's

housekeeper entered the room with a cup of tea and a dry biscuit. At eightfifteen Joseph Loveredge arose

and performed complicated exercises on an indiarubber pulley, warranted, if persevered in, to bestow grace

upon the figure and elasticity upon the limbs. Joseph Loveredge persevered steadily, and had done so for

years, and was himself contented with the result, which, seeing it concerned nobody else, was all that could

be desired. At halfpast eight on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, Joseph Loveredge breakfasted on one

cup of tea, brewed by himself; one egg, boiled by himself; and two pieces of toast, the first one spread with

marmalade, the second with butter. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays Joseph Loveredge discarded eggs

and ate a rasher of bacon. On Sundays Joseph Loveredge had both eggs and bacon, but then allowed himself

half an hour longer for reading the paper. At ninethirty Joseph Loveredge left the house for the office of the

oldestablished journal of which he was the incorruptible and honoured City editor. At onefortyfive,

having left his office at onethirty, Joseph Loveredge entered the Autolycus Club and sat down to lunch.

Everything else in Joseph's life was arranged with similar preciseness, so far as was possible with the duties

of a City editor. Monday evening Joseph spent with musical friends at Brixton. Friday was Joseph's theatre

night. On Tuesdays and Thursdays he was open to receive invitations out to dinner; on Wednesdays and

Saturdays he invited four friends to dine with him at Regent's Park. On Sundays, whatever the season, Joseph

Loveredge took an excursion into the country. He had his regular hours for reading, his regular hours for

thinking. Whether in Fleet Street, or the Tyrol, on the Thames, or in the Vatican, you might recognise him

from afar by his grey frockcoat, his patent leather boots, his brown felt hat, his lavender tie. The man was a

born bachelor. When the news of his engagement crept through the smoky portals of the Autolycus Club

"Impossible!" asserted Jack Herring. "I've known Joey's life for fifteen years. Every five minutes is arranged

"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 artists of Societydelightful as entertainers, but troublesome to live with."

"I call to mind," said the Wee Laddie, "a story he told me in this verra room, barely three months agone:

Some half a dozen of them were gong home together from the Devonshire. They had had a joyous evening,

and one of themJoey did not notice whichsuggested their dropping in at his place just for a final whisky.

They were laughing and talking in the diningroom, when their hostess suddenly appeared upon the scene in

a costumeso Joey described itthe charm of which was its variety. She was a nicelooking woman, Joey

said, but talked too much; and when the first lull occurred, Joey turned to the man sitting nighest to him, and

"'Perhaps you had better go,' assented the boredlooking man. 'Wish I could come with you; but, you see, I

"I don't believe it," said Somerville the Briefless. "He's been cracking his jokes, and some silly woman has

But the rumour grew into report, developed detail, lost all charm, expanded into plain recital of fact. Joey had

not been seen within the Club for more than a weekin itself a deadly confirmation. The question became:

"It's none of our set, or we should have heard something from her side before now," argued acutely

"Some beastly kid who will invite us to dances and forget the supper," feared Johnny Bulstrode, commonly

"Forty," explained severely Peter Hope, editor and part proprietor of Good Humour, "is not old."

"Good thing for you, Johnny, if it is a girl," thought Jack Herring. "Somebody for you to play with. I often

"I am hoping," said Peter, "it will be some sensible, pleasant woman, a little over thirty. He is a dear fellow,

"Oh, don't you fret," Jack Herring interrupted him"a pretty boy like you! We will give a ball next season,

It was August. Joey went away for his holiday without again entering the Club. The lady's name was

Henrietta Elizabeth Doone. It was said by the Morning Post that she was connected with the Doones of

Doones of GloucestershireDoones of Gloucestershire mused Miss Ramsbotham, Society journalist, who

wrote the weekly Letter to Clorinda, discussing the matter with Peter Hope in the editorial office of Good

Humour. "Knew a Doon who kept a big secondhand store in Euston Road and called himself an auctioneer.

He bought a small place in Gloucestershire and added an 'e' to his name. Wonder if it's the same?"

"No, of course not," agreed Peter. "But I was rather fond of it. It was a quaint sort of animal, considered as a

catwould never speak to another cat, and hated being out after ten o'clock at night."

The marriage took place abroad, at the English Church at Montreux. Mr. and Mrs. Loveredge returned at the

end of September. The Autolycus Club subscribed to send a present of a punchbowl, left cards, and waited

with curiosity to see the bride. But no invitation arrived. Nor for a month was Joey himself seen within the

Club. Then, one foggy afternoon, waking after a doze, with a cold cigar in his mouth, Jack Herring noticed he

was not the only occupant of the smokingroom. In a far corner, near a window, sat Joseph Loveredge

reading a magazine. Jack Herring rubbed his eyes, then rose and crossed the room.

"I thought at first," explained Jack Herring, recounting the incident later in the evening, "that I must be

dreaming. There he sat, drinking his five o'clock whiskyandsoda, the same Joey Loveredge I had known

for fifteen years; yet not the same. Not a feature altered, not a hair on his head changed, yet the whole face

was different; the same body, the same clothes, but another man. We talked for half an hour; he remembered

everything that Joey Loveredge had known. I couldn't understand it. Then, as the clock struck, and he rose,

saying he must be home at halfpast five, the explanation suddenly occurred to me: JOEY LOVEREDGE

"We don't want your feeble efforts at psychological romance," told him Somerville the Briefless. "We want to

know what you talked about. Dead or married, the man who can drink whiskyandsoda must be held

responsible for his actions. What's the little beggar mean by cutting us all in this way? Did he ask after any of

us? Did he leave any message for 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 he didn't leave any message. I didn't gather

"Well, I shall go round to the office tomorrow morning," said Somerville the Briefless, "and force my way

But Somerville returned only to puzzle the Autolycus Club still further. Joey had talked about the weather,

the state of political parties, had received with unfeigned interest all gossip concerning his old friends; but

about himself, his wife, nothing had been gleaned. Mrs. Loveredge was well; Mrs. Loveredge's relations were

Members of the Autolycus Club with time upon their hands took up the business of private detectives. Mrs.

Loveredge turned out to be a handsome, welldressed lady of about thirty, as Peter Hope had desired. At

eleven in the morning, Mrs. Loveredge shopped in the neighbourhood of the Hampstead Road. In the

afternoon, Mrs. Loveredge, in a hired carriage, would slowly promenade the Park, looking, it was noticed,

with intense interest at the occupants of other carriages as they passed, but evidently having no acquaintances

among them. The carriage, as a general rule, would call at Joey's office at five, and Mr. and Mrs. Loveredge

would drive home. Jack Herring, as the oldest friend, urged by the other members, took the bull by the horns

"I'm damned if I go again!" said Jack. "She was in the second time, I know. I watched her into the house.

Bewilderment gave place to indignation. Now and again Joey would creep, a mental shadow of his former

self, into the Club where once every member would have risen with a smile to greet him. They gave him curt

answers and turned away from him. Peter Hope one afternoon found him there alone, 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 to

him mere boys. So Peter, who hated mysteries, stepped forward with a determined air and clapped Joey on

"I want to know, Joey," said Peter, "I want to know whether I am to go on liking you, or whether I've got to

Joey turned to him a face so full of misery that Peter's heart was touched. "You can't tell how wretched it

makes me," said Joey. "I didn't know it was possible to feel so uncomfortable as I have felt during these last

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

"Break her of it!" cried the little man. "You might as well advise me to break a brick wall with my head. I had

"My dear Peter, do you think I haven't said all that, and a hundred things more? A woman! she gets an idea

into her head, and every argument against it hammers it in further. She has gained her notion of what she

calls Bohemia from the comic journals. It's our own fault, we have done it ourselves. There's no persuading

"Won't she see a few of usjudge for herself? There's Porsonwhy Porson might have been a bishop. Or

"It isn't only that," explained Joey; "she has ambitions, social ambitions. She thinks that if we begin with the

wrong set, we'll never get into the right. We have three friends at present, and, so far as I can see, are never

likely to have any more. My dear boy, you'd never believe there could exist such bores. There's a man and his

wife named Holyoake. They dine with us on Thursdays, and we dine with them on Tuesdays. Their only title

to existence consists in their having a cousin in the House of Lords; they claim no other right themselves. He

is a widower, getting on for eighty. Apparently he's the only relative they have, and when he dies, they talk of

retiring into the country. There's a fellow named Cutler, who visited once at Marlborough House in

connection with a charity. You'd think to listen to him that he had designs upon the throne. The most tiresome

of them all is a noisy woman who, 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 really is! It would shake the foundations of

European society if known. We sit and talk about the aristocracy; we don't seem to know anybody else. I tried

on one occasion a little sarcasm as a corrective recounted conversations between myself and the Prince of

Wales, in which I invariably addressed him as 'Teddy.' It sounds tall, I know, but those people 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 me and ask for more. What am I to do? I am helpless among them. I've never had anything to do

before with the really firstprize idiot; the usual type, of course, one knows, but these, if you haven't met

them, are inconceivable. I try insulting them; they don't even know I am insulting them. Short of dragging

them out of their chairs and kicking them round the room, I don't see how to make them understand it."

"Between ourselves," said Joey, sinking his voice to a needless whisper, seeing he and Peter were the sole

occupants of the smokingroom"I couldn't, of course, say it to a younger manbut between ourselves,

"So graceful, so dignified, soso queenly," continued the little man, with rising enthusiasm. "She has only

"I knowI know all that," interrupted the mere boy. "Nature arranges it on purpose. Tall and solemn prigs

marry little women with turnedup noses. Cheerful little fellows like myselfwe marry serious, stately

"Don't be a fool, Peter Hope," returned the little man. "I'm in love with my wife just as she is, and always

shall be. I know the woman with a sense of humour, and of the two I prefer the one without. The Juno type is

my ideal. I must take the rough with the smooth. One can't have a jolly, chirpy Juno, and wouldn't care for

"Don't suggest it," pleaded the little man. "You don't know how miserable it makes methe mere idea. Tell

them to be patient. The secret of dealing with women, I have found, is to do nothing rashly." The clock 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 one fault."

Peter did his best that evening to explain the true position of affairs without imputing snobbery to Mrs.

Loveredge. It was a difficult task, and Peter cannot be said to have accomplished it successfully. Anger and

indignation against Joey gave place to pity. The members of the Autolycus Club also experienced a little

"What does the woman take us for?" demanded Somerville the Briefless. "Doesn't she know that we lunch

with real actors and actresses, that once a year we are invited to dine at the Mansion House?"

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

"One of us ought to waylay the woman," argued the Babe"insist upon her talking to him for ten minutes.

The next morning Jack Herring, still thoughtful, called at the editorial offices of Good Humour, in Crane

Court, and borrowed Miss Ramsbotham's Debrett. Three days later Jack Herring informed the Club casually

that he had dined the night before with Mr. and Mrs. Loveredge. The Club gave Jack Herring politely to

understand that they regarded him as a liar, and proceeded 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 believe whatever he might tell them. But Jack Herring's feelings had been

"We didn't cast a doubt," explained Somerville the Briefless. "We merely said that we personally did not

believe you. We didn't say we couldn't believe you; it is a case for individual effort. If you give us particulars

bearing the impress of reality, supported by details that do not unduly contradict each other, we are prepared

to put aside our natural suspicions and face the possibility of your statement being correct."

"It was foolish of me," said Jack Herring. "I thought perhaps it would amuse you to hear what sort of a

woman Mrs. Loveredge was likesome description 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 foolish of me. These peopleyou will never meet them, you will never see

"They had forgotten to draw down the blinds, and he climbed up a lamppost and looked through the

"I'm dining there again on Saturday," volunteered Jack Herring. "If any of you will promise not to make a

disturbance, you can hang about on the Park side, underneath the shadow of the fence, and watch me go in.

"You won't mind our hanging round a little while, in case you're thrown out 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

"It's true enough," the Babe recounted afterwards. "The door was opened by a manservant and he went

straight in. We walked up and down for half an hour, and unless they put him out the back way, he's telling

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

"No, we were too far off," explained the Babe. "ButI'll swear it was Jackthere couldn't be any mistake

Somerville the Briefless called at the offices of Good Humour, in Crane Court, the following morning, and he

"Well, Herring was here last week, poring over that book for half an hour, with the Morning Post spread out

"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 he had received an invitation to dine

at the Loveredges' on the following Wednesday. On Tuesday, the Briefless one entered the Club with a slow

and stately step. Halting opposite old Goslin the porter, who had emerged from his box with the idea of

discussing the Oxford and Cambridge boat race, Somerville, removing his hat with a sweep of the arm, held it

out in silence. Old Goslin, much astonished, took it mechanically, whereupon the Briefless one, shaking

himself free from his Inverness cape, flung it lightly after the hat, and strolled on, not noticing that old

Goslin, unaccustomed to coats lightly and elegantly thrown at him, dropping the hat, had caught it on his

head, and had been, in the language of the promptbook, "left struggling." The Briefless one, entering the

smokingroom, lifted a chair and let it fall again with a crash, and sitting down upon it, crossed his legs and

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

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

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

The Briefless one, muttering that the worst of mixing with journalists was that if you did not watch yourself,

you fell into their ways, drank his whisky in silence. Later, the Babe swore on a copy of Sell's Advertising

Guide that, crossing the Park, he had seen the Briefless one leaning over the railings of Rotten Row, clad in a

One morning towards the end of the week, Joseph Loveredge, looking twenty years younger than when Peter

had last seen him, dropped in at the editorial office of Good Humour and demanded of Peter Hope how he

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

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

Peter Hope gulped down his astonishment and said he should be delighted; he thought that Tommy also was

Joseph Loveredge removed a pile of books from one chair and placed them carefully upon another, after

"Don't if you don't like," said Joseph Loveredge; "but if you don't mind, you might call yourself, just for the

"The Duke of Warrington," repeated Joey. "We are rather short of dukes. Tommy can be the Lady Adelaide,

"I'm not an ass," assured him Joseph Loveredge. "He is wintering in Egypt. You have run back for a week to

"Don't you see what I'm driving at?" persisted Joey. "It was Jack's idea at the beginning. I was frightened

myself at first, but it is working to perfection. She sees you, and sees that you are a gentleman. When the

"It's the only way, and it is really wonderfully simple. We never mention the aristocracy nowit would be

like talking shop. We just enjoy ourselves. You, by the way, I met in connection with the movement for

rational dress. You are a bit of a crank, fond of frequenting Bohemian circles."

"I am risking something, I know," continued Joey; "but it's worth it. I couldn't have existed much longer. We

go slowly, and are very careful. Jack is Lord MountPrimrose, who has taken up with antivaccination and

who never goes out into Society. Somerville is Sir Francis Baldwin, the great authority on centipedes. The

Wee Laddie is coming next week as Lord Garrick, who married that dancinggirl, Prissy Something, and

started 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 by vulgar personsthat when the nobility came to you as friends, it was

considered 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. I don't myself see why the truth ever need come out provided we keep our

"The more of us the better," explained Joey; "we help each other. Besides, I particularly want you in it.

There's a sort of superior Pickwickian atmosphere surrounding you that disarms suspicion."

"See here," laughed Joey; "you come as the Duke of Warrington, and bring Tommy with you, and I'll write

"For how long?" snapped Peter. Incorruptible City editors are not easily picked up.

"On that understanding," agreed Peter, "I'm willing to make a fool of myself in your company."

"You'll soon get used to it," Joey told him; "eight o'clock, then, on Sunday; plain evening dress. If you like to

wear a bit of red ribbon in your buttonhole, why, do so. You can get it at Evans', in Covent Garden."

"Adelaide. Let her have a taste for literature, then she needn't wear gloves. I know she hates them." Joey

Joey paused. "I should avoid all reference to your matrimonial affairs if I were you," was Joey's advice. "You

"I have asked her that. She's a dear, broadminded girl. I've promised not to leave you alone with Miss

"I'd have liked to have been someone a trifle more respectable," grumbled Peter.

"We rather wanted a duke," explained Joey, "and he was the only one that fitted in all round."

The dinner a was a complete success. Tommy, entering into the spirit of the thing, bought a new pair of

openwork stockings and assumed a languid drawl. Peter, who was growing forgetful, introduced her as the

Lady Alexandra; it did not seem to matter, both beginning with an A. She greeted Lord MountPrimrose as

"Billy," and asked affectionately after his mother. Joey told his raciest stories. The Duke of Warrington called

everybody by their Christian names, and seemed well acquainted with Bohemian society a more amiable

nobleman it would have been impossible to discover. The lady whose real name was not Miss Montgomery

sat in speechless admiration. The hostess was the personification of gracious devotion.

Other little dinners, equally successful, followed. Joey's acquaintanceship appeared to be confined

exclusively to the higher circles of the British aristocracywith one exception: that of a German baron, a

short, stout gentleman, who talked English well, but with an accent, and who, when he desired to be

impressive, laid his right forefinger on the right side of his nose and thrust his whole face forward. Mrs.

Loveredge wondered why her husband had not introduced them sooner, but was too blissful to be suspicious.

The Autolycus Club was gradually changing its tone. Friends could no longer recognise one another by the

voice. Every corner had its solitary student practising highclass intonation. Members dropped into the habit

of addressing one another as "dear chappie," and, discarding pipes, took to cheap cigars. Many of the older

All might have gone well to the end of time if only Mrs. Loveredge had left all social arrangements in the

hands of her husbandhad not sought to aid his efforts. To a certain political garden party, one day in the

height of the season, were invited Joseph Loveredge and Mrs. Joseph Loveredge, his wife. Mr. Joseph

Loveredge at the last moment found himself unable to attend. Mrs. Joseph Loveredge went alone, met there

various members of the British aristocracy. Mrs. Joseph Loveredge, accustomed to friendship with the

aristocracy, felt at her ease and was natural and agreeable. The wife of an eminent peer talked to her and liked

her. It occurred to Mrs. Joseph Loveredge that this lady might be induced to visit her house in Regent's Park,

"Lord MountPrimrose, the Duke of Warrington, and a few others will be dining with us on Sunday next,"

suggested Mrs. Loveredge. "Will not you do us the honour of coming? We are, of course, only simple folk

The wife of the eminent peer looked at Mrs. Loveredge, looked round the grounds, looked at Mrs. Loveredge

again, and said she would like to come. Mrs. Joseph Loveredge intended at first to tell her husband of her

success, but a little devil entering into her head and whispering to her that it would be amusing, she resolved

to keep it as a surprise, to be sprung upon him at eight o'clock on Sunday. The surprise proved all she could

The Duke of Warrington, having journalistic matters to discuss with Joseph Loveredge, arrived at halfpast

seven, wearing on his shirt front a silver star, purchased in Eagle Street the day before for eightandsix.

There accompanied him the Lady Alexandra, wearing the identical ruby necklace that every night for the past

six months, and twice on Saturdays, "John Strongheart" had been falsely accused of stealing. Lord Garrick,

having picked up his wife (Miss Ramsbotham) outside the Mother Redcap, arrived with her on foot at a

quarter to eight. Lord MountPrimrose, together with Sir Francis Baldwin, dashed up in a hansom at

sevenfifty. His Lordship, having lost the toss, paid the fare. The Hon. Harry Sykes (commonly called "the

Babe") was ushered in five minutes later. The noble company assembled in the drawingroom chatted

blithely while waiting for dinner to be announced. The Duke of Warrington was telling an anecdote about a

cat, which nobody appeared to believe. Lord MountPrimrose desired to know whether by any chance it

might be the same animal that every night at halfpast nine had been in the habit of climbing up his Grace's

railings and knocking at his Grace's door. The Honourable Harry was saying that, speaking of cats, he once

had a sort of terrierwhen the door was thrown open and Willis announced the Lady Mary Sutton.

Mr. Joseph Loveredge, who was sitting near the fire, rose up. Lord MountPrimrose, who was standing near

the piano, sat down. The Lady Mary Sutton paused in the doorway. Mrs. Loveredge crossed the room to greet

"Let me introduce you to my husband," said Mrs. Loveredge. "Joey, my dear, the Lady Mary Sutton. I met

the Lady Mary at the O'Meyers' the other day, and she was good enough to accept my invitation. I forgot to

Mr. Loveredge said he was delighted; after which, although as a rule a chatty man, he seemed to have nothing

Somerville the Brieflesstill then. That evening has always been reckoned the startingpoint of his career.

"You don't remember me, Lady Mary," said the Briefless one. "I met you some years ago; we had a most

The Lady Mary stood for a moment trying apparently to recollect. She was a handsome, freshcomplexioned

woman of about forty, with frank, agreeable eyes. The Lady Mary glanced at Lord Garrick, who was talking

rapidly to Lord MountPrimrose, who was not listening, and who could not have understood even if he had

been, Lord Garrick, without being aware of it, having dropped into broad Scotch. From him the Lady Mary

The Lady Mary took the hand held out to her. "Of course," said the Lady Mary; "how stupid of me! It was the

day of my own wedding, too. You really must forgive me. We talked of quite a lot of things. I remember

Mrs. Loveredge, who prided herself upon maintaining oldfashioned courtesies, proceeded to introduce the

Lady Mary to her fellow guests, a little surprised that her ladyship appeared to know so few of them. Her

ladyship's greeting of the Duke of Warrington was accompanied, it was remarked, by a somewhat curious

smile. To the Duke of Warrington's daughter alone did the Lady Mary address remark.

It was not a merry feast. Joey told but one story; he told it three times, and twice left out the point. Lord

MountPrimrose took sifted sugar 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 up housekeeping 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 all trouble. The

Lady Alexandra's behaviour appeared to Mrs. Loveredge not altogether wellbred. An eccentric young

noblewoman Mrs. Loveredge had always found her, but wished on this occasion that she had been a little less

eccentric. Every few minutes the Lady Alexandra buried her face in her serviette, and shook and rocked,

emitting stifled sounds, apparently those of acute physical pain. Mrs. Loveredge hoped she was not feeling

ill, but the Lady Alexandra appeared incapable of coherent reply. Twice during the meal the Duke of

Warrington rose from the table and began wandering round the room; on each occasion, asked what he

wanted, had replied meekly that he was merely looking for his snuffbox, and had sat down again. The only

The ladies retired upstairs into the drawingroom. Mrs. Loveredge, breaking a long silence, remarked it as

unusual that no sound of merriment reached them from the diningroom. The explanation was that the entire

male portion of the party, on being left to themselves, had immediately and in a body crept on tiptoe into

Joey's study, which, fortunately, happened to be on the ground floor. Joey, unlocking the bookcase, had taken

out his Debrett, but appeared incapable of understanding it. Sir Francis Baldwin had taken it from his

unresisting hands; the remaining aristocracy huddled themselves into a corner and waited in silence.

"I think I've got it all clearly," announced Sir Francis Baldwin, after five minutes, which to the others had

been an hour. "Yes, I don't think I'm making any mistake. She's the daughter of the Duke of Truro, married in

'53 the Duke of Warrington, at St. Peter's, Eaton Square; gave birth in '55 to a daughter, the Lady Grace

Alexandra Warberton Sutton, which makes the child just thirteen. In '63 divorced the Duke of Warrington.

Lord MountPrimrose, 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 me that we could have got together a homelier little party to meet her even

Nobody spoke; nobody had anything particularly worth saying. The door opened, and the Lady Alexandra

"Isn't it time," suggested the Lady Alexandra, "that some of you came upstairs?"

"I was thinking myself," explained Joey, the host, with a grim smile, "it was about time that I went out and

"Put it off till tomorrow," Tommy advised him. "I have asked her ladyship to give me a lift home, and she

has promised to do so. She is evidently a woman with a sense of humour. Wait till after I have had a talk with

Six men, whispering at the same time, were prepared with advice; but Tommy was not taking advice.

"Come upstairs, all of you," insisted Tommy, "and make yourselves agreeable. She's going in a quarter of an

Six silent men, the host leading, the two husbands bringing up the rear, ascended the stairs, each with the

sensation of being twice his usual weight. Six silent men entered the drawingroom and sat down on chairs.

Miss Ramsbothamit was that or hysterics, as she afterwards explainedstifling a sob, opened the piano.

But the only thing she could remember was "Champagne Charlie is my Name," a song then popular in the

halls. Five men, when she had finished, begged her to go on. Miss Ramsbotham, speaking in a shrill falsetto,

explained it was the only tune she knew. Four of them begged her to play it again. Miss Ramsbotham played

The Lady Mary's carriage was announced by the imperturbable Willis. The party, with the exception of the

Lady Mary and the hostess, suppressed with difficulty an inclination to burst into a cheer. The Lady Mary

thanked Mrs. Loveredge for a most interesting evening, and beckoned Tommy to accompany her. With her

disappearance, a wild hilarity, uncanny in its suddenness, took possession of the remaining guests.

A few days later, the Lady Mary's carriage again drew up before the little 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 underhousemaid reported to the kitchen that, passing

Through what ordeal Joseph Loveredge passed was never known. For a few weeks the Autolycus Club

missed him. Then gradually, as aided by Time they have a habit of doing, things righted themselves. Joseph

Loveredge received his old friends; his friends received Joseph Loveredge. Mrs. Loveredge, as a hostess,

came to have only one failinga marked coldness of demeanour towards all people with titles, whenever

People said of the new journal, Good Humourpeople of taste and judgment, that it was the brightest, the

cleverest, the most literary penny weekly that ever had been offered to the public. This made Peter Hope,

editor and partproprietor, very happy. William Clodd, business manager, and also partproprietor, it left less

"Must be careful," said William Clodd, "that we don't make it too clever. Happy medium, that's the ideal."

People saidpeople of taste and judgment, that Good Humour was more worthy of support than all the other

penny weeklies put together. People of taste and judgment even went so far, some of them, as to buy it. Peter

"Doesn't it occur to you, Guv'nor, that we're getting this thing just a trifle too high class?"

"I'd rather you didn't mention them, if you don't mind," interrupted Peter Hope; "somehow, hearing the actual

"It will come," said Peter Hope, "it will come in time. We must educate the 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

"How will our having an officeboy increase our circulation?" demanded Peter Hope. "Besides, it was agreed

"I don't mean an ordinary officeboy," explained Clodd. "I mean the sort of boy that I rode with in the train

"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 me so. When he had done with it, he drew from his pocket a copy of the

Halfpenny Jokerthey guarantee a circulation of seventy thousand. He sat and chuckled over it until we got

"You wait a minute. I'm coming to the explanation. That boy represents the reading public. I talked to him.

The papers he likes best are the papers that have the largest sales. He never made a single mistake. The

othersthose of them he had seenhe dismissed as 'rot.' What he likes is what the great mass of the

journalbuying public likes. Please himI took his name and address, and he is willing to come to us for

eight shillings a weekand you please the people that buy. Not the people that glance through a paper when

it is lying on the smokingroom table, and tell you it is damned good, but the people that plank down their

Peter Hope, able editor, with ideals, was shockedindignant. William Clodd, business man, without ideals,

"There's the advertiser to be thought of," persisted Clodd. "I don't pretend to be a George Washington, but

what's the use of telling lies that sound like lies, even to one's self while one's telling them? Give me a

genuine sale of twenty thousand, and I'll undertake, without committing myself, to convey an impression of

forty. But when the actual figures are under eight thousandwell, it hampers you, if you happen to have a

"Give them every week a dozen columns of good, sound literature," continued Clodd insinuatingly, "but wrap

it up in twentyfour columns of jam. It's the only way they'll take it, and you will be doing them

goodeducating them without their knowing it. All powder and no jam! Well, they don't open their mouths,

Clodd was a man who knew how to get his way. Flippspelled PhilipTweetel arrived in due course of

time at 23, Crane Court, ostensibly to take up the position of Good Humour's officeboy; in reality, and

without his being aware of it, to act as its literary taster. Stories in which Flipp became absorbed were

accepted. Peter groaned, but contented himself with correcting only their grosser grammatical blunders; the

experiment should be tried in all good faith. Humour at which Flipp laughed was printed. Peter tried to ease

his conscience by increasing his subscription to the fund for destitute compositors, but only partially

succeeded. Poetry that brought a tear to the eye of Flipp was given leaded type. People of taste and judgment

said Good Humour had disappointed them. Its circulation, slowly but steadily, increased.

"Tell you what we'll do," added Clodd. "We'll make a fortune out of this paper. Then when we can afford to

lose a little money, we'll launch a paper that shall appeal only to the intellectual portion of the public.

A squat black bottle with a label attached, standing on the desk, arrested Clodd's attention.

"I think so." Peter searched for and found a letter addressed to "William Clodd, Esq., Advertising Manager,

"Good! I want you to write me a par. Do it now, then you won't forget it. For the 'Walnuts and Wine'

Peter continued to write: 'Possesses all the qualities of an old vintage port, without those deleterious

"Splendid stuff. Say it's 'delicious and invigorating.' They'll be sure to quote that."

Peter wrote on: 'Personally I have found it delicious and' Peter left off writing. "I really think, Clodd, I

"Finish that par. Let me have it to take round to the printers. Then put the bottle in your pocket. Take it home

Clodd appeared to be in a mighty hurry. Now, this made Peter only the more suspicious. The bottle was close

"You're not used to temperance drinks," urged Clodd. "Your palate is not accustomed to them."

"I can tell whether it's 'delicious' or not, surely?" pleaded Peter, who had pulled out the cork.

"It's a quarterpage advertisement for thirteen weeks. Put it down and don'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

Peter ventured on another sip. "You don't think they would be satisfied if I recommended it as a medicine?"

insinuated Peter "something to have about the house in case of accidental poisoning?"

"Better go round and suggest the idea to them yourself. I've done with it." Clodd took up his hat.

Clodd put down his hat again with a bang. "Oh! confound that conscience of yours! Don't it ever think of

your creditors? What's the use of my working out my lungs for you, when all you do is to hamper me at every

"Wouldn't it be better policy," urged Peter, "to go for the better class of advertiser, who doesn't ask you for

"Go for him!" snorted Clodd. "Do you think I don't go for him? They are just sheep. Get one, you get the lot.

"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 I could get an advertisement out of Landor, he might persuade his people to give

"And if you had gone to Landor, he would have promised you theirs provided you got Kingsley's."

"They will come," thought hopeful Peter. "We are going up steadily. They will come with a rush."

"They had better come soon," thought Clodd. "The only things coming with a rush just now are bills."

"Those articles of young McTear's attracted a good deal of attention," expounded Peter. "He has promised to

"Jowett is the one to get hold of," mused Clodd. "Jowett, all the others follow like a flock of geese waddling

after the old gander. If only we could get hold of Jowett, the rest would be easy."

Jowett was the proprietor of the famous Marble Soap. Jowett spent on advertising every year a quarter of a

million, it was said. Jowett was the stay and prop of periodical literature. New papers that secured the Marble

Soap advertisement lived and prospered; the new paper to which it was 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 at the

"I have heard," said Miss Ramsbotham, who wrote the Letter to Clorinda that filled each week the last two

pages of Good Humour, and that told Clorinda, who lived secluded in the country, the daily history of the

highest class society, among whom Miss Ramsbotham appeared to live and have her being; who they were,

and what they wore, the wise and otherwise things they did"I have heard," said Miss Ramsbotham one

morning, Jowett being as usual the subject under debate, "that the old man is susceptible to female influence."

"What I have always thought," said Clodd. "A lady advertising agent might do well. At all events, they

"They might in the end," thought Peter. "Female doorporters would become a profession for muscular ladies

The subeditor had pricked up her ears. Once upon a time, long ago, the subeditor had succeeded, when all

other London journalists had failed, in securing an interview with a certain great statesman. The subeditor

The editor and the businessmanager both spoke together. They spoke with decision and with emphasis.

"Why not?" said the subeditor. "When nobody else could get at him, it was I who interviewed Prince"

"We've heard all about that," interrupted the businessmanager. "If I had been your father at the time, you

"How could I have stopped her?" retorted Peter Hope. "She never said a word to me."

"Kept an eye on her! When you've got a girl of your own, you'll know more about them."

"You leave it to me. I'll have it for you before the end of the week," crowed the subeditor.

"You said yourself a lady advertisingagent would be a good idea," the subeditor reminded him.

"See you at the printer's at twelve," said Clodd to Peter, and went out suddenly.

"I do not often," said the editor, "but on this point I agree with him. Cadging for advertisements isn't a

"Whatever it is, you're not going to do it," declared the chief. "Shall be back at halfpast twelve, if anybody

"Just like them all," wailed the subeditor. "They can't argue; when you explain things to them, they go out.

"Cheer up," suggested Miss Ramsbotham. "Nobody ever tells me not to do anything. I would change with

"I'd have walked into that office and have had that advertisement out of old Jowett in five minutes, I know I

The door opened. "Anybody in?" asked the face of Johnny Bulstrode, appearing in the jar.

"Figure of speech," explained Johnny Bulstrode, commonly called "the Babe," entering and closing the door

"Wrong time of the day to come for it, halfpast eleven in the morning," explained the subeditor.

"We are very indignant," explained Miss Ramsbotham, "because we are not allowed to rush off to Cannon

Street and coax an advertisement out of old Jowett, the soap man. We feel sure that if we only put on our best

"No coaxing required," thought the subeditor. "Once get in to see the old fellow and put the actual figures

"Won't see anybody on behalf of anything new just at present, apparently," answered Miss Ramsbotham. "It

was my fault. I was foolish enough 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," sighed the Babe.

"I beg your pardon," said the Babe. "I don't know how it is, but one gets into the way of calling you Tommy."

The Babe stood first on one leg and then on the other, but nothing seemed to come of it. "Well," said the

The childlike face of the Babe wore a chastened expression as it slowly descended the stairs. Most of the

members of the Autolycus Club looked in about once a day to see if they could do anything for Tommy.

Some of them had luck. Only the day before, Porsona heavy, most uninteresting manhad been sent

down all the way to Plaistow to inquire after the wounded hand of a machineboy. Young Alexander, whose

poetry some people could not even understand, had been commissioned to search London for a secondhand

edition of Maitland's Architecture. Since a fortnight nearly now, when he had been sent out to drive away an

Johnny turned the corner into Fleet Street feeling bitter with his lot. A boy carrying a parcel stumbled against

"Beg yer pardon" the small boy looked up into Johnny's face, "miss," added the small boy, dodging the

The Babe, by reason of his childlike face, was accustomed to insults of this character, but today it especially

irritated him. Why at twentytwo could he not grow even a moustache? Why was he only five feet five and a

half? Why had Fate cursed him with a pinkandwhite complexion, so that the members of his own club had

nicknamed him "the Babe," while streetboys as they passed pleaded with him for a kiss? Why was his very

voice, a flutelike alto, more suitable Suddenly an idea sprang to life within his brain. The idea grew.

"Beg pardon," said the barber, substituting a towel for the sheet. "Do you shave up, sir?" later demanded the

From the barber's, Johnny went to Stinchcombe's, the costumier's, in Drury Lane.

"I am playing in a burlesque," explained the Babe. "I want you to rig me out completely as a modern girl."

"Peeth o' luck!" said the shopman. "Goth the very bundle for you. Juth come in."

"I shall want everything," explained the Babe, "from the boots to the hat; stays, petticoatsthe whole bag of

"Regular troutheau there," said the shopman, emptying out the canvas bag upon the counter. "Thry 'em on."

"Thath's all right," said the shopman. "Couple o' thmall towelths, all thath's wanted."

The Babe left a deposit, and gave his name and address. The shopman promised the things should be sent

round within an hour. The Babe, who had entered into the spirit of the thing, bought a pair of gloves and a

Mr. Cox tried on two. The deceptive appearance of the second Mr. Cox pronounced 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 completeness descended upon the Babe. On his way

back to his lodgings in Great Queen Street, he purchased a ladylike umbrella and a veil.

Now, a quarter of an hour after Johnny Bulstrode had made his exit by the door of Mr. Stinchcombe's shop,

one, Harry Bennett, actor and member of the Autolycus Club, pushed it open and entered. The shop was

empty. Harry Bennett hammered with his stick and waited. A piledup bundle of clothes lay upon the

counter; a sheet of paper, with a name and address scrawled across it, rested on the bundle. Harry Bennett,

given to idle curiosity, approached and read the same. Harry Bennett, with his stick, poked the bundle,

"Donth do thath!" said the shopman, coming up. "Juth been putting 'em together."

"What the devil," said Harry Bennett, "is Johnny Bulstrode going to do with that rigout?"

"How thoud I know?" answered the shopman. "Private theathricals, I suppoth. Friend o' yourth?"

"Yes," replied Harry Bennett. "By Jove! he ought to make a good girl. Should like to see it!"

The rigout and the wig did not arrive at Johnny's lodgings within the hour as promised, but arrived there

within three hours, which was as much as Johnny had expected. It took Johnny nearly an hour to dress, but at

last he stood before the plateglass panel of the wardrobe transformed. Johnny had reason to be pleased with

the result. A tall, handsome girl looked back at him out of the glass a little showily dressed, perhaps, but

"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, "so

Johnny seized his reticule and his umbrella and opened cautiously the door. Outside all was silent. Johnny

stealthily descended; in the passage paused again. Voices sounded from the basement. Feeling like an

escaped burglar, Johnny slipped the latch of the big door and peeped out. A policeman, pasting, turned and

looked at him. Johnny hastily drew back and closed the door again. Somebody was ascending from the

kitchen. Johnny, caught between two terrors, nearer to the front door than to the stairs, having no time, chose

the street. It seemed to Johnny that the street was making for him. A woman came hurriedly towards him.

What was she going to say to him? What should he answer her? To his surprise she passed him, hardly

noticing him. Wondering what miracle had saved him, he took a few steps forward. A couple of young clerks

coming up from behind turned to look at him, but on encountering his answering stare of angry alarm,

appeared confused and went their way. It began to dawn upon him that mankind was less discerning than he

had feared. Gaining courage as he proceeded, he reached Holborn. Here the larger crowd swept around him

"My fault," replied the stout gentleman, as, smiling, he picked up his damaged hat.

"I beg your pardon," repeated Johnny again two minutes later, colliding with a tall young lady.

"Should advise you to take something for that squint of yours," remarked the tall young lady with severity.

"What's the matter with me?" thought Johnny. "Seems to be a sort of mist" The explanation flashed across

Johnny decided to walk to the Marble Soap offices. "I'll be more used to the hang of things by the time I get

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 shock them if I went in somewhere for a drop of brandy?"

"It don't get any better," reflected Johnny, with some alarm, on reaching the corner of Cheapside. "Hope I'm

not going to be ill. Whatever" The explanation came to him. "Of course, it's these damned stays! No

At the offices of the Marble Soap, Johnny was treated with marked courtesy. 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 she was

there, to wait. Would the lady take the easy chair? Would the lady have the window open or would she have

"Or the Ha'penny Joker?" suggested a junior clerk, who thereupon was promptly 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 appeared wishful to express at length. Johnny began to enjoy himself.

This thing was going to be good fun. By the time the slamming of doors and the hurrying of feet announced

It was briefer and less satisfactory than he had anticipated. Mr. Jowett was very busydid not as a rule see

"Would Miss Montgomery inform Mr. Jowett what it was he might have the pleasure of doing for her?"

"Really," said Mr. Jowett, "this is hardly playing the game. Against our fellowmen we can protect ourselves,

"I'll think it over," was all that Mr. Jowett could be made to promise. "Look me up again."

"What's today?Thursday. Say Monday." Mr. Jowett rang the bell. "Take my advice," said the old

gentleman, laying a fatherly hand on Johnny's shoulder, "leave business to us men. You are a handsome girl.

Johnny went out feeling disappointed, and yet, as he told himself, he hadn't done so badly. Anyhow, there

was nothing for it but to wait till Monday. Now he would go home, change his clothes, and get some dinner.

"Number twentyeightno. Stop at the Queen's Street corner of Lincoln's Inn Fields," Johnny directed the

"Quite right, miss," commented the cabman pleasantly. "Corner's bestsaves all talk."

Johnny climbed in. At the corner of Queen Street and Lincoln's Inn Fields, Johnny got out. Johnny, who had

been pondering other matters, put his hand instinctively to where, speaking generally, his pocket should have

"Let me see, did I think to bring any money out with me, or did I not?" mused Johnny, as he stood upon the

"It's somewhere about here, I know, I saw it," Johnny told himself. "Sorry to keep you waiting," Johnny

"Don't you worry about that, miss," replied the cabman civilly; "we are used to it. A shilling a quarter of an

The urchins moved a few steps further, then halted again and were joined by a slatternly woman and another

"Got it!" cried Johnny, unable to suppress his delight as his hand slipped through a fold. The lady with the

baby, without precisely knowing why, set up a shrill cheer. Johnny's delight died away; it wasn't the

pockethole. Short of taking the skirt off and turning it inside out, it didn't seem to Johnny that he ever would

Then in that moment of despair he came across it accidentally. It was as empty as the reticule!

"I am sorry," said Johnny to the cabman, "but I appear to have come out without my purse."

The cabman said he had heard that tale before, and was making preparations to descend. The crowd, now

numbering eleven, looked hopeful. It occurred to Johnny later that he might have offered his umbrella to the

cabman; at least it would have fetched the eighteenpence. One thinks of these things afterwards. The only

" No, she's not. She's up again!" vociferated a delighted plumber, with a sounding slap on his own leg. "Gor

Fortunately the Square was tolerably clear and Johnny a good runner. Holding now his skirt and petticoat

high in his left hand, Johnny moved across the Square at the rate of fifteen miles an hour. A butcher's boy

sprang in front of him with arms held out to stop him. The thing that for the next three months annoyed that

butcher boy most was hearing shouted 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 and cry was far behind. Johnny dropped

his skirts and assumed a more girlish pace. Through Bow Street and Long Acre he reached Great Queen

Street in safety. Upon his own doorstep he began to laugh. His afternoon's experience had been amusing; still,

on the whole, he wasn't sorry it was over. One can have too much even of the best of jokes. Johnny rang the

The door opened. Johnny would have walked in had not a big, raw boned woman barred his progress.

This appeared to Johnny a foolish question. On reflection he saw the sense of it. This rawboned woman was

"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 rawboned lady. "And what's more, there's going to be

All this was very vexing. Johnny, in his joy at reaching his own doorstep, had not foreseen these

complications. Now it would be necessary to explain things. He only hoped the story would not get round to

Johnny looked at the rawboned lady, imagined himself telling the rawboned lady the simple, unvarnished

truth, and the rawboned lady's utter disbelief of every word of it. An inspiration came to his aid.

"I meant that he lived here," replied poor Johnny still more meekly. "He has the second floor, you know."

For an instant it occurred to Johnny to make a dash for it, but the rawboned lady looked both formidable and

determined. There would be a big disturbanceperhaps the police called in. Johnny had often wanted to see

"You have a walk and cool yourself," suggested the rawboned lady. "Don't expect he will be long."

Outside a restaurant in Wellington Street, from which proceeded savoury odours, Johnny paused and tried to

"What the devil did I do with that umbrella? I had itno, I didn't. Must have dropped it, I suppose, when that

Outside another restaurant in the Strand Johnny paused again. "How am I to live till Sunday night? Where am

I to sleep? If I telegraph homedamn it! how can I telegraph? I haven't got a penny. This is funny," said

Johnny, unconsciously speaking aloud; "upon my word, this is funny! Oh! you go to."

Johnny hurled this last at the head of an overgrown errandboy whose intention had been to offer sympathy.

"Well, I never!" commented a passing flowergirl. "Calls 'erself a lidy, I suppose."

"Nowadays," observed the stud and button merchant at the corner of Exeter Street, "they make 'em out of

Drawn by a notion that was forming in his mind, Johnny turned his steps up Bedford Street. "Why not?"

mused Johnny. "Nobody else seems to have a suspicion. Why should they? I'll never hear the last of it if they

find me out. But why should they find me out? Well, something's got to be done."

Johnny walked on quickly. At the door of the Autolycus Club he was undecided for a moment, then took his

"Find him in the smokingroom, Mr. Bulstrode," answered old Goslin, who was reading the evening paper.

Old Goslin found Jack Herring the centre of an earnest argument on Hamletwas he really mad?

"Wait a minute," said Harry Bennett. "Shut that door. Don't go." This to old Goslin, who closed the door and

returned. "Lady in a heliotrope dress with a lace collar, three flounces on the skirt?"

"Was in at Stinchcombe's this morning," explained Harry Bennett; "saw the clothes 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."

"I can see verra promising possibilities in this, provided the thing is properly managed," said the Wee Laddie,

"So can I," agreed Jack Herring. "Keep where you are, all of you. 'Twould be a pity to fool it,"

"One of the saddest stories I have ever heard in all my life," explained Jack Herring in a whisper. "Poor girl

left Derbyshire this morning to come and see her brother; found him outhasn't been seen at his lodgings

since three o'clock; fears something may have happened to him. Landlady gone to Romford to see her

"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 been robbed of everything she possesses, even

of her umbrella, and hasn't got a sou; hasn't had any dinner, and doesn't know where to sleep."

"I think I can understand it," said the Briefless one. "What has happened 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 his pocket. His

landlady may have gone to Romford or may not. In any case, he would have to knock at the door and enter

"To buy himself a suit of clothes. Don't you do it, Jack. Providence has imposed this upon us. Our duty is to

"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 got her the post office. We'll leave him there for a night, with instructions to

Mrs. P. to keep a motherly eye on him. To morrow he shall have his 'bit of fun,' and I guess he'll be the first

It looked a promising plot. Seven members of the Autolycus Club gallantly undertook to accompany "Miss

Bulstrode" to her lodgings. Jack Herring excited jealousy by securing the privilege of carrying her reticule.

"Miss Bulstrode" was given to understand that anything any of the seven could do for her, each and every

would be delighted to do, if only for the sake of her brother, one of the dearest boys that ever breatheda bit

of an ass, though that, of course, he could not help. "Miss Bulstrode" was not as grateful as perhaps she

should have been. Her idea 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 own interests, they declined to do. She had suffered one

extensive robbery that day already, as Jack reminded her. London was a city of danger to the young and

inexperienced. Far better that they should watch over her and provide for her simple wants. Painful as it was

to refuse a lady, a beloved companion's sister's welfare was yet dearer to them. "Miss Bulstrode's" only desire

was not to waste their time. Jack Herring's opinion was that there existed no true Englishman who would

Arrived at the little grocer's shop in Rolls Court, Jack Herring drew Mrs. Postwhistle aside.

"I shall be round again in the morning. Don't let her out of your sight, and, above all, don't lend her any

"Miss Bulstrode" having despatched an excellent supper of cold mutton and bottled beer, leant back in her

"I have often wondered," remarked Miss Bulstrode, her eyes fixed upon the ceiling, "what a cigarette would

"Taste nasty, I should say, the first time," thought Mrs. Postwhistle, who was knitting.

"One of the nicest girls I ever knew," remarked Miss Bulstrode, "always smoked a cigarette after supper. Said

"I think," said Miss Bulstrode, who seemed restless, "I think I shall go for a little walk before turning in."

"Perhaps it would do us good," agreed Mrs. Postwhistle, laying down her knitting.

"Don't you trouble to come," urged the thoughtful Miss Bulstrode. "You look tired."

In some respects Mrs. Postwhistle proved an admirable companion. She asked no questions, and only spoke

when spoken to, which, during that walk, was not often. At the end of half an hour, Miss Bulstrode pleaded a

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 the bedroom door was closed behind him,

"and that's all one can say for it. Must get hold of a smoke tomorrow, if I have to rob the till. What's that?"

Johnny stole across on, tiptoe. "Confound it!" said Johnny, "if she hasn't locked the door!"

Johnny sat down upon the bed and took stock of his position. "It doesn't seem to me," thought Johnny, "that

I'm ever going to get out of this mess." Johnny, still muttering, unfastened his stays. "Thank God, that's off!"

ejaculated Johnny piously, as he watched his form slowly expanding. "Suppose I'll be used to them before

For the whole of next day, which was Friday, Johnny remained "Miss Bulstrode," hoping against hope to find

an opportunity to escape from his predicament without confession. The entire Autolycus Club appeared to

"Thought I was a bit of a fool myself," mused Johnny, "where a petticoat was concerned. Don't believe these

They came in ones, they came in little parties, and tendered him devotion. Even Mrs. Postwhistle,

"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 we shall take her to him."

"Nothing like looking in the right place for a thing when you've finished looking in the others," observed

Jack Herring looked at Mrs. Postwhistle. But Mrs. Postwhistle's face was not of the expressive order.

"The post office 'as been a great 'elp to me," admitted Mrs. Postwhistle; "and I'm not forgetting that I owe it

They brought her presentsnothing very expensive, more as tokens of regard: dainty packets of sweets,

nosegays of simple flowers, bottles of scent. To Somerville "Miss Bulstrode" hinted that if he really did

desire to please her, and wasn't merely talking through his hatMiss Bulstrode apologised for the slang,

which, she feared, she must have picked up from her brotherhe might give her a box of Messani's

cigarettes, size No. 2. The suggestion pained him. Somerville the Briefless was perhaps oldfashioned. Miss

Bulstrode cut him short by agreeing that he was, and seemed disinclined for further conversation.

They took her to Madame Tussaud's. They took her up the Monument. They took her to the Tower of

London. In the evening they took her to the Polytechnic to see Pepper's Ghost. They made a merry party

"Seem to be enjoying themselves!" remarked other sightseers, surprised and envious.

The fortitude with which Miss Bulstrode bore the mysterious disappearance of her brother excited

"Hadn't we better telegraph to your people in Derbyshire?" suggested Jack Herring.

"Don't do it," vehemently protested the thoughtful Miss Bulstrode; "it might alarm them. The best plan is for

"Perhaps he'll turn up tomorrow," thought Miss Bulstrode. "Expect he's gone on a visit."

"He ought not to have done it," thought Jack Herring, "knowing you were coming."

"Oh! let's talk of something else," suggested Miss Bulstrode. "You make me tired."

With Jack Herring, in particular, Johnny was beginning to lose patience. That "Miss Bulstrode's" charms had

evidently struck Jack Herring all of a heap, as the saying is, had in the beginning amused Master Johnny.

Indeedas in the seclusion of his bedchamber over the little grocer's shop he told himself with bitter

selfreproachhe had undoubtedly encouraged the man. From admiration Jack had rapidly passed to

infatuation, from infatuation to apparent imbecility. Had Johnny's mind been less intent upon his own

troubles, he might have been suspicious. As it was, and after all that had happened, nothing now could

astonish Johnny. "Thank Heaven," murmured Johnny, as he blew out the light, "this Mrs. Postwhistle appears

Now, about the same time that Johnny's head was falling thus upon his pillow, the Autolycus Club sat

"I think," said Jack Herring, "the Crystal Palace in the morning when it's nice and quiet."

"Winding up with the Moore and Burgess Minstrels in the evening," thought Porson.

"Hardly the place for the young person," feared Jack Herring. "Some of the jokes"

"Mr. Brandram gives a reading of Julius Caesar at St. George's Hall," the Wee Laddie informed them for their

"Hallo!" said Alexander the Poet, entering at the moment. "What are you all talking about?"

"We were discussing where to take Miss Bulstrode tomorrow evening," informed him Jack Herring.

"Miss Bulstrode," repeated the Poet in a tone of some surprise. "Do you mean Johnny Bulstrode's sister?"

"That's the lady," answered Jack. "But how do you come to know about her? Thought you were in

"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 matter over quietly."

"You say you travelled up to London yesterday with Miss Bulstrode. You are sure it was Miss Bulstrode?"

"I never asked her. The last I saw of her she was getting into a cab. I had an appointment myself, and wasI

"I asked her an hour ago," said Jack Herring, who was still holding his head between his hands as if to make

sure it was there, "if she thought she could ever learn to love me. Would you say that could be construed into

The remainder of the Club was unanimously of opinion that, practically speaking, it was a proposal.

"I don't see it," argued Jack Herring. "It was merely in the nature of a remark."

It appeared to be a case for prompt action. Jack Herring sat down and then and there began a letter to Miss

"Oh! take him away somewhere and tell him, someone," moaned Jack Herring. "How can I think with all this

Jack's letter was delivered to "Miss Bulstrode" the next morning at breakfasttime. Having perused it, Miss

"Mr. Herring's particular instructions were," explained Mrs. Postwhistle, "that, above all things, I was not to

"When you have read that," replied Miss Bulstrode, handing her the letter, "perhaps you will agree with me

"Better get a shave with part of it," suggested Mrs. Postwhistle. "That is, if you are going to play the fool

Twenty minutes later, the real Miss Bulstrode, on a visit to her aunt in Kensington, was surprised at

"Want to speak to you at onceALONE. Don't yell when you see me. It's all right. Can explain in two

"THEY didn't think so," retorted the Babe. "I took them in all right. Guess you've never had as much

"If you will come to the Club at eight o'clock this evening," said the Babe, "I'll prove it to you. Perhaps I'll

The Babe himself walked into the Autolycus Club a few minutes before eight and encountered an atmosphere

"Called away suddenlyvery important business," explained the Babe. "Awfully much obliged to all you

"Awfully good of you, I'm sure," persisted the Babe. "Don't know what she would have done without you."

A mere nothing, the Club assured him. The blushing modesty of the Autolycus Club at hearing of their own

good deeds was touching. Left to themselves, they would have talked of quite other things. As a matter of

"Never heard her speak so enthusiastically of anyone as she does of you, Jack," said the Babe, turning to Jack

"Of course, you know, dear boy," explained Jack Herring, "anything I could do for a sister of yours"

"She couldn't quite make out that letter of yours this morning," continued the Babe, ignoring Jack's request.

"It seemed to me, on reflection," explained Jack Herring, "that on one or two little matters she may have

misunderstood me. As I wrote her, there are days when I don't seem altogether to quite know what I'm

"She tells me you were most kind to her," the Babe reassured him. "She thought at first it was a little uncivil,

"It was silly of me," interrupted Jack. "I see that now. I went round this 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. I blame

"My dear boy, don't blame yourself for anything. You acted nobly," the Babe told him. "She's coming here to

"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 old Goslin's hand. "She will think it so

Miss Bulstrode was seated in the hall. Jack Herring and Somerville both thought her present quieter style of

"Here he is," announced the Babe, in triumph. "Here's Jack Herring and here's Somerville. Do you know, I

could hardly persuade them to come out and see you. Dear old Jack, he always was so shy."

Miss Bulstrode rose. She said she could never thank them sufficiently for all their goodness to her. Miss

"Before we go further, Miss Bulstrode," said Jack Herring, "it will be best to tell you that all along we

"Oh!" said the Babe, "so that's the explanation, is it? If I had only known" Then the Babe stopped, and

Somerville seized him by the shoulders and, with a sudden jerk, stood him beside his sister under the gasjet.

"You little brute!" said Somerville. "It was you all along." And the Babe, seeing the game was up, and glad

Jack Herring and Somerville the Briefless went that night with Johnny and his sister to the theatreand on

other nights. Miss Bulstrode thought Jack Herring very nice, and told her brother so. But she thought

Somerville the Briefless even nicer, and later, under crossexamination, when Somerville was no longer

But that has nothing to do with this particular story, the end of which is that Miss Bulstrode kept the

appointment made for Monday afternoon between "Miss Montgomery" and Mr. Jowett, and secured thereby

the Marble Soap advertisement for the back page of Good Humour for six months, at twentyfive pounds a

William Clodd, mopping his brow, laid down the screwdriver, and stepping back, regarded the result of his

"It looks like a bookcase," said William Clodd. "You might sit in the room for half an hour and never know it

What William Clodd had accomplished was this: he had had prepared, after his own design, what appeared to

be four shelves laden with works suggestive of thought and erudition. As a matter of fact, it was not a

bookcase, but merely a flat board, the books merely the backs of volumes that had long since found their way

into the papermill. This artful deception William Clodd had screwed upon a cottage piano standing in the

corner of the editorial office of Good Humour. Half a dozen real volumes piled upon the top of the piano

completed the illusion. As William Clodd had proudly remarked, a casual visitor might easily have been

"If you had to sit in the room while she was practising mixed scales, you'd be quickly undeceived," said the

"You are not always in," explained Clodd. "There must be hours when she is here alone, with nothing else to

"You, I notice, don't try to get used to it," snarled Peter Hope. "You always go out the moment she

"A friend of mine," continued William Clodd, "worked in an office over a pianoshop for seven years, and

when the shop closed, it nearly ruined his business; couldn't settle down to work for want of it."

"It was a shop where people came and practised, paying sixpence an hour, and he had got to like itsaid it

made a cheerful background to his thoughts. Wonderful what you can get accustomed to."

"What's the good of it!" retorted William Clodd indignantly. "Every girl ought to know how to play the piano.

"I wonder you don't start a matrimonial agency," sneered Peter Hope. "Love and marriageyou think of

"But you're not," interrupted Peter; "that's just what I'm trying to get out of your head. It is I who am bringing

"I've brought her up for seven years without your help. She's my adopted daughter, not yours. I do wish

"Thank you," said Peter Hope sarcastically. "It's very kind of you. Perhaps when you've time, you'll write me

"up till now," concluded the imperturbable Clodd. "A girl of eighteen wants to know something else

"I do understand them," asserted Peter Hope. "What do you know about them? You're not a father."

"You've done your best," admitted William Clodd in a tone of patronage that irritated Peter greatly; "but

you're a dreamer; you don't know the world. The time is coming when the girl will have to think of a

"There's no need for her to think of a husband, not for years," retorted Peter Hope. "And even when she does,

"I tinkI tink," said Dr. Smith, who had hitherto remained a silent listener, "our young frent Clodd is right.

You haf never quite got over your idea dat she was going to be a boy. You haf taught her de tings a boy

"You let her have it cutit's the same thing. At eighteen she knows more about the ancient Greeks and

"De young girl," argued the doctor, "what is she? De flower dat makes bright for us de garden of life, de

"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 wantwe all wantthe girl to be a success all

"I want her" Peter Hope was rummaging among the litter on the desk. It certainly was not there. Peter

pulled out a drawertwo drawers. "I wish," said Peter Hope, "I wish sometimes she wasn't quite so clever."

The old doctor rummaged among dusty files of papers in a corner. Clodd found it on the mantelpiece

concealed beneath the hollow foot of a big brass candlestick, and handed it to Peter.

Peter had one vicethe taking in increasing quantities of snuff, which was harmful for him, as he himself

admitted. Tommy, sympathetic to most masculine frailties, was severe, however, upon this one.

"You spill it upon your shirt and on your coat," had argued Tommy. "I like to see you always neat. Besides, it

"I must," Peter had agreed. "I'll break myself of it. But not all at onceit would be a wrench; by degrees,

So a compromise had been compounded. Tommy was to hide the snuff box. It was to be somewhere in the

room and to be accessible, but that was all. Peter, when selfcontrol had reached the breaking point, might

try and find it. Occasionally, luck helping Peter, he would find it early in the day, when he would earn his

own bitter selfreproaches by indulging in quite an orgie. But more often Tommy's artfulness was such that

he would be compelled, by want of time, to abandon the search. Tommy always knew when he had failed by

the air of indignant resignation with which he would greet her on her return. Then perhaps towards evening,

Peter, looking up, would see the box open before his nose, above it, a pair of reproving black eyes, their

severity counterbalanced by a pair of full red lips trying not to smile. And Peter, knowing that only one pinch

"I want her," said Peter Hope, feeling with his snuffbox in his hand more confidence in his own judgment,

"to be a sensible, clever woman, capable of earning her own living and of being independent; not a mere

"Some women, perhaps," admitted Peter; "but Tommy, you know very well, is not going to be the ordinary

"They are not sharp enough. The last 'bus home on a wet night tells you whether a woman is capable of

"She's the sort," retorted Peter, "to make a name for herself and to be able to afford a cab. Don't you bully

"Yes, I shall," Clodd told him, "on this particular point. The poor girl's got no mother."

Fortunately for the general harmony the door opened at the moment to admit the subject of discussion.

"Got that Daisy Blossom advertisement out of old Blatchley," announced Tommy, waving triumphantly a

"Very odd," mused Peter; "asked the old idiot for it myself only last week. He refused it pointblank."

Clodd snorted reproof. "You know I don't like your doing that sort of thing. It isn't proper for a young girl"

Tommy took Peter's head between her hands and kissed it, and in doing so noticed the telltale specks of

Tommy took up the snuffbox from the desk. "I'll show you where I'm going to put it this time." She put it in

"What do you think of it?" said Clodd. He led her to the corner. "Good idea, ain't it?"

"It isn't humbug," cried Clodd indignantly. "She thought it was a bookcaseanybody would. You'll be able

to sit there and practise by the hour," explained Clodd to Tommy. "When you hear anybody coming up the

"How can she hear anything when she" A bright idea occurred to Peter. "Don't you think, Clodd, as a

practical man," suggested Peter insinuatingly, adopting the Socratic method, "that if we got her one of those

dummy pianosyou know what I mean; it's just like an ordinary piano, only you don't hear it?"

"Quite so. Then, on the other hand, Clodd, don't you think that hearing the effect they are producing may

"Well, I'm going across to the printer's now," explained Clodd, taking up his hat. "Got an appointment with

young Grindley at three. You stick to it. A spare halfhour now and then that you never miss does wonders.

You've got it in you." With these encouraging remarks to Tommy, Clodd disappeared.

"Easy for him," muttered Peter bitterly. "Always does have an appointment outside the moment she begins."

Tommy appeared to be throwing her very soul into the performance. Passersby in Crane Court paused,

regarded the firstfloor windows of the publishing and editorial offices of Good Humour with troubled looks,

"She hasremarkably firm douch!" shouted the doctor into Peter's ear. "Will see youevening.

The fat little doctor took his hat and departed. Tommy, ceasing suddenly, came over and seated herself on the

"It isn't," explained Peter, "that I mind the noise. I'd put up with that 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 of doing it; but Billy says so, and Billy

"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 a brick? Why, he could go into Fleet

Street to half a dozen other papers and make five hundred a year as advertisingagentyou know he could.

But he doesn't. He sticks to us. If my making myself ridiculous with that tin pot they persuaded him was a

piano is going to please him, isn't it common sense and sound business, to say nothing of good nature and

gratitude, for me to do it? Dad, I've got a surprise for him. Listen." And Tommy, springing from the arm of

Tommy clapped her hands. "Yes, it was. You'll end by liking it yourself, dad. We'll have musical 'At

"No dad, you haven't. You have let me have my own way too much. You know 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't know itself whether 'twas a boy or a girl? Do

you know what I thought to myself the moment I set eyes on you? 'Here's a soft old juggins; I'll be all right if

I can get in here!' It makes you smart, knocking about in the gutters and being knocked about; you read faces

"Do you remember your cooking, Tommy? You 'had an aptitude for it,' according to your own idea."

"You were so obstinate. You came to me as 'cook and housekeeper,' and as cook and housekeeper, and as

nothing else, would you remain. If I suggested any change, up would go your chin into the air. I dared not

even dine out too often, you were such a little tyrant. The only thing you were always ready to do, if I wasn't

satisfied, was to march out of the house and leave me. Wherever did you get that savage independence of

"I don't know. I think it must have been from a womanperhaps she was my mother; I don't knowwho

used to sit up in the bed and cough, all night it seemed to me. People would come to see us ladies in fine

clothes, 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 her face, and she would tell them what even then I knew to be untrueit

was one of the first things I can recollectthat we had everything we wanted, that we needed no help from

anyone. They would go away, shrugging their shoulders. I grew up with the feeling that seemed to have been

burnt into my brain, that to take from anybody anything you had not earned was shameful. I don't think I

There had crept a terror into Tommy's voice. Peter felt the little hands upon his arm trembling.

"Help me? Why, you work like a niggerlike a nigger is supposed to work, but doesn't. No onewhatever

we paid himwould do half as much. I don't want to make your head more swollen than it is, young woman,

but you have talent; I am not sure it is not genius." Peter felt the little hands tighten upon his arm.

"I do want this paper to be a success; that is why I strum upon the piano to please Clodd. Is it humbug?"

"I am afraid it is; but humbug is the sweet oil that helps this whirling world of ours to spin round smoothly.

"But you are sure it is only humbug, Tommy?" It was Peter's voice into which fear had entered now. "It is not

"You want me to tell you all I think of you, and that isn't good for you, dadnot too often. It would be you

"I am jealous, Tommy, jealous of everyone that comes near you. Life is a tragedy for us old folks. We know

there must come a day when you will leave the nest, leave us voiceless, ridiculous, flitting among bare

branches. 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 for the woman. The mother lives again in her child: the man is robbed of all."

"Yes," answered Tommy, "I suppose he will; but not for a long whileoh, not for a very long while. Don't.

"The pain. It makes me feel a coward. I want it to come; I want to taste life, to drain the whole cup, to

understand, to feel. But that is the boy in me. I am more than half a boy, I always have been. But the woman

"There are all things in it; I feel it, dad. It is life in a single draught. 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 to concoct. The shadow passed, and Tommy's laughing eyes looked out

"Well, I've nothing else to occupy me till the proofs come in. I'm going to practise, hard."

"There's one thing you all of you ought to be grateful to me for," laughed Tommy, as she seated herself at the

Tommy, left alone, set herself to her task with the energy and thoroughness that were characteristic of her.

Struggling with complicated scales, Tommy bent her eyes closer and closer over the pages of Czerny's

Exercises. Glancing up to turn a page, Tommy, to her surprise, met the eyes of a stranger. They were brown

eyes, their expression sympathetic. Below them, looking golden with the sunlight falling on it, was a

moustache and beard cut short in Vandyke fashion, not altogether hiding a pleasant mouth, about the corners

"I beg your pardon," said the stranger. "I knocked three times. Perhaps you did not hear me?"

"No, I didn't," confessed Tommy, closing the book of Czerny's Exercises, and rising with chin at an angle

that, to anyone acquainted with the chart of Tommy's temperament, might have suggested the advisability of

"This is the editorial office of Good Humour, is it not?" inquired the stranger.

"Would you mind glancing through that?" The stranger drew from his pocket a folded manuscript. "It will not

take you a moment. I ought, of course, to have sent it through the post; but I am so tired of sending things

The stranger's manner was compounded of dignified impudence combined with pathetic humility. His eyes

both challenged and pleaded. Tommy held out her hand for the paper and retired with it behind the protection

of the big editorial desk that, flanked on one side by a screen and on the other by a formidable revolving

bookcase, stretched fortresslike across the narrow room. The stranger remained standing.

"Yes. It's pretty," criticised the subeditor. "Worth printing, perhaps, not worth paying for."

"Not merely aa nominal sum, sufficient to distinguish it from the work of the amateur?"

Tommy pursed her lips. "Poetry is quite a drug in the market. We can get as much as we want of it for

Tommy shot a swift glance across the desk, and for the first time saw the whole of him. He was clad in a

threadbare, long, brown ulsterlong, that is, it would have been upon an ordinary man, but the stranger

happening to be remarkably tall, it appeared on him ridiculously short, reaching only to his knees. Round his

neck and tucked into his waistcoat, thus completely hiding the shirt and collar he may have been wearing or

may not, was carefully arranged a blue silk muffler. His hands, which were bare, looked blue and cold. Yet

the black frockcoat and waistcoat and French grey trousers bore the unmistakable cut of a firstclass tailor

and fitted him to perfection. His hat, which he had rested on the desk, shone resplendent, and the handle of

his silk umbrella 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 the editor about it when he returns."

Her black eyes were fixed upon the stranger without her being aware of it. She had dropped unconsciously

"The old story," mused Peter, as he unfolded the manuscript. "We all of us begin with poetry. Then we take

to prose romances; poetry doesn't pay. Finally, we write articles: 'How to be Happy though Married,' 'What

The stranger called early the next day, pocketed his halfcrown, and left another manuscriptan essay. Also

he left behind him his goldhandled umbrella, taking away with him instead an old alpaca thing Clodd kept

"He has a style," said Peter; "he writes with distinction. Make an appointment for me with him."

"What's the good of this thing to me?" commented Clodd. "Sort of thing for a dude in a pantomime! The

Tommy gave to the stranger messages from both when next he called. He appeared more grieved than

"You don't think Mr. Clodd would like to keep this umbrella in exchange for his own?" he suggested.

"It's very peculiar," said the stranger, with a smile. "I have been trying to get rid of this umbrella for the last

three weeks. Once upon a time, when I preferred to keep my own umbrella, people used to take it by mistake,

leaving all kinds of shabby things behind them in exchange. Now, when I'd really like to get quit of it,

"Why do you want to get rid of it?" asked Tommy. "It looks a very good umbrella."

"You don't know how it hampers me," said the stranger. "I have to live up to it. It requires a certain amount of

resolution to enter a cheap restaurant accompanied by that umbrella. When I do, the waiters draw my

attention to the most expensive dishes and recommend me special brands of their socalled champagne. They

seem quite surprised if I only want a chop and a glass of beer. I haven't always got the courage to disappoint

them. 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 do anything I want to do. I want to live simply and inexpensively: it will not let me."

The stranger laughed also. "Lose it! You have no idea how honest people are. I hadn't myself. The whole

world has gone up in my estimation within the last few weeks. People run after me for quite long distances

and force it into my handpeople on rainy days who haven't got umbrellas of their own. It is the same with

this hat." The stranger sighed as he took it up. "I am always trying to get OFF with something reasonably

"Do you know, I never thought of that," said the stranger. "Of course. What a good idea! Thank you so

"Silly fellow," mused Tommy. "They won't give him a quarter of the value, and he will say: 'Thank you so

much,' and be quite contented." It worried Tommy a good deal that day, the thought of that stranger's

The stranger's name was Richard Danvers. He lived the other side of Holborn, in Featherstone Buildings, but

Peter liked him. "Full of promise," was Peter's opinion. "His criticism of that article of mine on 'The

Flipp, the officeboy (spelt Philip), liked him; and Flipp's attitude, in general, was censorial. "He's all right,"

pronounced Flipp; "nothing stuckup about him. He's got plenty of sense, lying hidden away."

Miss Ramsbotham liked him. "The menthe men we think about at all," explained Miss

Ramsbotham"may be divided into two classes: the men we ought to like, but don't; and the men there is no

particular reason for our liking, but that we do. Personally I could get very fond of your friend Dick. There is

"If you mean a big street," grumbled Tommy, who was going over proofs, "why not say a big street? Why

"I am sorry," apologised Danvers. "It is not my own idea. You told me to study the higherclass journals."

"I didn't tell you to select and follow all their faults. Here it is again. Your crowd is always a 'hydraheaded

"Don't give me up," pleaded the staff. "I misunderstood you, that is all. I will write English for the future."

Dick Danvers rose. "I am so anxious not to get what you call 'the sack' from here."

The subeditor, mollified, thought the staff need be under no apprehension, provided it showed itself

"I have been rather a worthless fellow, Miss Hope," confessed Dick Danvers. "I was beginning to despair of

myself till I came across you and your father. The atmosphere hereI don't mean the material atmosphere of

Crane Courtis so invigorating: its simplicity, its sincerity. I used to have ideals. I tried to stifle them. There

is a set 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 to take this big boy on her knee and

talk to him for his good. He was only an overgrown lad. But so exceedingly overgrown! Tommy had to

"How did you get hold of him?" asked Clodd one afternoon, he and Peter alone in the office.

"Nothing. What is there to know? One doesn't ask for a character with a journalist."

"Because you are just a woolly lamb and want a dog to look after you. Who is he? On a first night he gives

away his stall and sneaks into the pit. When you send him to a picturegallery, he dodges the private view

and goes on the first shilling day. If an invitation comes to a public dinner, he asks me to go and eat it for him

and tell him what it's all about. That doesn't suggest the frank and honest journalist, does it?"

"Get him away! Don't have him in and out of the office all day longlooking at her with those colliedog

eyes of his, arguing art and poetry with her in that cushatdove voice of his. Get him clean awayif it isn't

"Nonsense," said Peter, who had turned white, however. "She's not that sort of girl."

"Not that sort of girl!" Clodd had no patience with Peter Hope, and told him so. "Why are there never

inkstains on her fingers now? There used to be. Why does she always keep a lemon in her drawer? When did

she last have her hair cut? I'll tell you if you care to knowthe week before he came, five months ago. She

used to have it cut once a fortnight: said it tickled her neck. Why does she jump on people when they call her

Tommy and tell them that her name is Jane? It never used to be Jane. Maybe when you're a bit older you'll

"Fiddlededee!" said Peter as he helped himself to his thirteenth pinch. "Don't believe it. I'll sound her. I

Peter stood with his back to the fire. Tommy sat at her desk, correcting proofs of a fanciful story: The Man

"Danvers," sighed Peter. "It always happens so. You get friendly with a man; then he goes awayabroad,

"You don't ask when he's going, you don't ask where he's going," complained Peter. "You don't seem to be

"I was going to ask, so soon as I had finished correcting this sheet," explained Tommy. "What reason does he

Peter had crossed over and was standing where he could see her face illumined by the lamplight.

"It doesn't upset youthe thought of his going away, of your never seeing him again?"

"Why should it?" Tommy answered his searching gaze with a slightly puzzled look. "Of course, I'm sorry. He

was becoming useful. But we couldn't expect him to stop with us always, could we?"

Peter, rubbing his hands, broke into a chuckle. "I told him 'twas all fiddlesticks. Clodd, he would have it you

I'm glad it was Clodd that noticed them, not you, dad, thought Tommy to herself. They'd have been pretty

"It naturally made me anxious," confessed Peter. "You see, we know absolutely nothing of the fellow."

"He may be a man of the highest integrity. Personally, I think he is. I like him. On the other hand, he may be

a thoroughpaced scoundrel. I don't believe for a moment that he is, but he may be. Impossible to say."

"Considered merely as a journalist, it doesn't matter. He writes well. He has brains. There's an end of it."

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 she needed to be talked to was one Jane, a young woman of dignity with

"I do hope that at least you are feeling ashamed of yourself," remarked Jane to Tommy that same night, as the

"Clodd ain't everybody. He's got eyes at the back of his head. Sees things before they happen."

"Where's your woman's pride: falling in love with a man who has never spoken to you, except in terms of the

"Just because of his soft eyes, and his wheedling voice, and that halfcaressing, halfdevotional manner of

his. Do you imagine he keeps it specially 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'm sorry for him, that's all."

"It doesn't matter. We are none of us saints. He's trying to pull himself together, and I respect him for it. It's

"Oh, well, I'll tell you how you can be kind to him: by pointing out to him that he is wasting his time. With

his talents, now that he knows his business, he could be on the staff of some big paper, earning a good

income. Put it nicely to him, but be firm. Insist on his going. That will be showing true kindness to himand

And Tommy understood and appreciated the sound good sense underlying Jane's advice, and the very next

day but one, seizing the first opportunity, acted upon it; and all would have gone as contemplated if only

Dick Danvers had sat still and listened, as it had been arranged in Tommy's programme that he should.

"But you ought to want to go. Staying here with us you are doing yourself 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 as he remained seated at the other end of the room, she was the subeditor,

counselling the staff for its own good. Now that she could not raise her eyes without encountering his, she felt

painfully conscious of being nothing more important than a little woman who was trembling.

"Oh, please do sit down again," she urged him. "I can talk to you so much better when you're sitting down."

But he would not do anything he should have done that day. Instead he took her hands in his, and would not

"Let me be with you always," he pleaded. "It means the difference between light and darkness to me. You

have done so much for me. Will you not finish your work? Will you not trust me? It is no hot passion that can

pass away, my love for you. It springs from all that is best in mefrom the part of me that is wholesome and

"The other part of methe blackguardit is dead, dear,dead and buried. I did not know I was a

blackguard, I thought myself a fine fellow, till one day it came home to me. Suddenly I saw myself as I really

was. And the sight of the thing frightened me and I ran away from it. I said to myself I would begin life

afresh, in a new country, free of every tie that could bind me to the past. It would mean povertyprivation,

maybe, in the beginning. What of that? The struggle would brace me. It would be good sport. Ah, well, you

can guess the result: the awakening to the cold facts, the reaction of feeling. In what way was I worse than

other men? Who was I, to play the prig in a world where others were laughing and dining? I had tramped

your city till my boots were worn into holes. I had but to abandon my quixotic idealsreturn to where shame

lay waiting for me, to be welcomed with the fatted calf. It would have ended so had I not chanced to pass by

"It was so incongruousa piano in Crane CourtI looked to see where the noise came from. I read the

name of the paper on the doorpost. 'It will be 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 you all this. You are so bighearted, so

human; you will understand, you can forgive. It is all past. Loving you tells a man that he has done with evil.

She put her hands in his. "I am trusting you," she said, "with all my life. Don't make a muddle of it, dear, if

It was an odd wooing, as Tommy laughingly told herself when she came to think it over in her room that

What troubled her most was that he had not been quite frank with Peter, so that Peter had to defend her

"I attacked you so suddenly," explained Peter, "you had not time to think. You acted from instinct. A woman

"I expect, after all, I am more of a girl than a boy," feared Tommy: "I seem to have so many womanish

Peter took himself into quite places and trained himself to face the fact that another would be more to her

than he had ever been, and Clodd went about his work like a bear with a sore head; but they neither of them

need have troubled themselves so much. The marriage did not take place till nearly fifteen years had passed

The past is not easily got rid of. A tale was once written of a woman who killed her babe and buried it in a

lonely wood, and later stole back in the night and saw there, white in the moonlight, a child's hand calling

through the earth, and buried it again and yet again; but always that white baby hand called upwards through

the earth, trample it down as she would. Tommy read the story one evening in an old miscellany, and sat long

before the dead fire, the book open on her lap, and shivered; for now she knew the fear that had been

Tommy lived expecting her. She came one night when Tommy was alone, working late in the office. Tommy

knew her the moment she entered the door, a handsome woman, with snakelike, rustling skirts. She closed

the door behind her, and drawing forward a chair, seated herself the other side of the desk, and the two looked

"They told me I should find you here alone," said the woman. "It is better, is it not?"

"Because, if notif you have merely accepted him thinking him a good catchwhich he isn't, my dear;

hasn't a penny to bless himself with, and never will if he marries youwhy, then the matter is soon settled.

They tell me you are a businesslike young lady, and I am prepared to make a businesslike proposition."

"If, on the other hand, you are that absurd creature, a young girl in lovewhy, then, I suppose we shall have

"Let me explain before you decide," continued the woman. "Dick Danvers left me six months ago, and has

"I was a married woman when Dick Danvers and I first met. Since he left mefor my sake and his ownI

"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 monthsdisappear entirely. Leave him

freeuninfluenced. If he loves youif it be not merely a sense of honour that binds himyou will find him

here on your return. If notif in the interval I have succeeded in running off with him, well, is not the two or

three thousand pounds I am prepared to put into this paper of yours a fair price for such a lover?"

Tommy rose with a laugh of genuine amusement. She could never altogether put aside her sense of humour,

"You may have him for nothingif he is that man," the girl told her; "he shall be free to choose between us."

"Why not take my offer? You know the money is needed. It will save your father years of anxiety and

struggle. Go awaytravel, for a couple of months, if you're afraid of the six. Write him that you must be

The woman, too, had risen. "Do you think he really cares for you? At the moment you interest him. At

nineteen every woman is a mystery. When the mood is pastand do you know how long a man's mood lasts,

you poor chit? Till he has caught what he is running after, and has tasted itthen 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 old pleasures

and pursuits he can no longer enjoy; of the luxuriesnecessities to a man of his stamp that marriage with

you has deprived him of. Then your face will be a perpetual reminder to him of what he has paid for it, and he

"You don't know him," the girl cried. "You know just a part of himthe part you would know. All the rest of

him is a good man, that would rather his selfrespect than all the luxuries you mentionyou included."

The girl looked at her watch. "He will be here shortly; he shall tell us himself."

"That here, between the two of us, he shall decidethis very night." She showed her white face to the

"Oh, yes, he will," the girl laughed. "Come, you have all the advantages; you are rich, you are clever; you

belong to his class. If he elects to stop with me, it will be because he is my man mine. Are you afraid?"

The woman shivered. She wrapped her fur cloak about her closer and sat down again, and Tommy returned to

He came a little later, though how long the time may have seemed to the two women one cannot say. They

heard his footstep on the stair. The woman rose and went forward, so that when he opened the door she was

the first he saw. But he made no sign. Possibly he had been schooling himself for this moment, knowing that

The girl was leaning with her back against the desk in a somewhat mannish attitude. He stood between them.

It will always remain Life's chief comic success: the man between two women. The situation has amused the

world for so many years. Yet, somehow, he contrived to maintain a certain dignity.

"Maybe," he continued, "you are confounding me with a Dick Danvers who lived in New York up to a few

months ago. I knew him wella worthless scamp you had done better never to have met."

"The poor fool is dead," he answered. "And he left for you, my dear lady, this dying message: that, from the

bottom of his soul, he was sorry for the wrong he had done you. He asked you to forgive himand forget

"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 the dead. The man had been his friend.

"He was killed, it appears, in that last expedition in July," answered the woman. "I received the news from the

An ugly look came into his eyesthe look of a cornered creature fighting for its life. "Why have you

followed me here? Why do I find you here alone with her? What have you told her?"

"All the truth?" he demanded"all? Ah! be just. Tell her it was not all my fault. Tell her all the truth."

"What would you have me tell her? That I played Potiphar's wife to your Joseph?"

"Ah, no! The truthonly the truth. That you and I were a pair of idle fools with the devil dancing round us.

"Is it over? Dick, is it over?" She flung her arms towards him; but he threw her from him almost brutally.

"The man is dead, I tell you. His folly and his sin lie dead with him. I have nothing to do with you, nor you

"Dick!" she whispered. "Dick, cannot you understand? I must speak with you alone."

"Dick, are you really dead?" she cried. "Have you no pity for me? Do you think that I have followed you here

to grovel at your feet for mere whim? Am I acting like a woman sane and sound? Don't you see that I am

mad, and why I am mad? Must I tell you before her? Dick" She staggered towards him, and the fine cloak

slipped from her shoulders; and then it was that Tommy changed from a child into a woman, and raised the

other woman from the ground with crooning words of encouragement such as mothers 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, and it seemed to him as the throb of

passing footsteps beating down through the darkness to where he lay in his grave.

They spoke in low, matteroffact tones, as people do who have grown weary of their own emotions.

"It will not mend reputation. Her position in society is everything to that class of woman."

"Practically speaking it would," the girl pleaded. "The world does not go out of its way to find out things it

does not want to know. Marry her as quietly as possible and travel for a year or two."

"Why should I? Ah! it is easy enough to call a man a coward for defending himself against a woman. What is

"There is the child to be considered," she urged"your child. You see, dear, we all do wrong sometimes. We

"I? Oh, I shall cry for a little while, but later on I shall laugh, as often. 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 be a finer thing to be worthy of her than

So he did her bidding and went out with the other woman. Tommy was glad it was pressnight. She would

not be able to think for hours to come, and then, perhaps, she would be feeling too tired. Work can be very

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. Had it been otherwise, I doubt I could have found courage to tell you this

story of Tommy. It is not all trueat least, I do not suppose so. One drifts unconsciously a little way into

dreamland when one sits oneself down to recall the happenings of long ago; while Fancy, with a sly wink,

whispers ever and again to Memory: "Let me tell this incidentpicture that scene: I can make it so much

more interesting than you would." But Tommyhow can I put it without saying too much: there is someone

I think of when I speak of her? To remember only her dear wounds, and not the healing of them, would have

been a task too painful. I love to dwell on their next meeting. Flipp, passing him on the steps, did not know

"Seen that face somewhere before," mused Flipp, as at the corner of Bedford Street he climbed into a

For Dick Danvers, that he did not recognise Flipp, there was more excuse. A very old young man had Flipp

The goldbound doorkeeper feared the mighty Clodd would be unable to see so insignificant an atom as an

unappointed stranger, but would let the card of Mr. Richard Danvers plead for itself. To the goldbound

keeper's surprise came down the message that Mr. Danvers was to be at once shown up.

"I thought, somehow, you would come to me first," said the portly Clodd, advancing with outstretched hand.

"Yes. She is like you. But looks as if she were going to have more sense. Forgive me, I knew your father my

"Well, not exactly dead; we amalgamated it," winked Clodd in answer to Danvers' inquiry. "It was just a trifle

TOO highclass. Besides, the old 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 all things. Do they know you are in England?"

"You will find hardly any change in her. One still has to keep one's eye upon her chin. She has not even lost

They talked a little longer, till there came a whistle, and Clodd put his ear to the tube.

"I have to see her on business," said Clodd, rising; "you may as well come with me. They are still in the old

Peter did not know Dick, but would not admit it. Forgetfulness was a sign 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 up to date. And then light fell upon the

old lined face. He came towards Dick, meaning to take him by both hands, but, perhaps because he had

become somewhat feeble, he seemed glad when the younger man put his arms around him and held him for a

moment. It was unEnglish, and both of them felt a little ashamed of themselves afterwards.

"What we want," said Clodd, addressing Peter, "we threeyou, I, and Miss Danversis tea and cakes, with

cream in them; and I know a shop where they 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 of business with Miss Hope."

"I know," answered the gravefaced little person. She drew Dick's face down to hers and kissed it. And then

"Couldn't we hide somewhere till she comes?" suggested Miss Danvers. "I want to see her."

So they waited in the open doorway of a near printinghouse till Tommy drove up. Both Peter and Clodd

watched the child's face with some anxiety. She nodded gravely to herself three times, then slipped her hand