The ornaments in question had been a Christmas present from Mrs. Grice. ("I bought 'em just before closing-time at a Sale of Work what my married sister in the Wandsworth Road was interested in, sir," she had explained. "A Sale of Work in aid of the Bulgarian Atrocities, it was. I said to Grice at the time that they would brighten up your room something wonderful. There they are, sir, with our respectful Christmas wishes--one from Grice and one from me. Oh, thank you sir!") Hence their name. "Yes," said Philip; "Mrs. Grice got them out of the cupboard as soon as I returned, and they were duly washed and put up this morning. I was hoping she had forgotten about them; but they will have to stay there now. We mustn't offend the old lady. You are a tremendous swell to-night, Tim. Going out?" "Yes," said Tim importantly, "I am." He produced a pair of white gloves and began to try them on, surveying Philip's aged dinner-jacket and black tie with tolerant indulgence. "I must now pull myself together," he announced, turning to survey an appallingly tight white waistcoat with immense satisfaction in the glass over the mantelpiece, "and pass along quietly." "You needn't go yet," said Philip, filling another pipe. "Despite your frenzied entreaties, old son," replied Timothy, "I simply must. There is going to be dirty work at the crossroads to-night," he added mysteriously. Philip, who gathered that a confidence of some kind was on the way, waited. It was good to see Timothy again. His company was always exhilarating, and at the present juncture it was extra welcome. For Philip found himself at an unexpectedly loose end. He had landed from the Caspian a week before, determined this time to put his whole fate to the touch--only to find that his Lady was not in London. Friends in Hampshire--he knew neither their name nor address, and was much too self-conscious to enquire at Tite Street--had snatched her away directly after her father's wedding, and the date of her return was uncertain. Therefore he leaned at this moment upon Timothy. Presently Tim enquired:-- "I say, Phil, ever been in love, old friend?" This was a familiar gambit, and Philip gave his usual reply. "Occasionally." "Anything doing at present? Anything fresh?" "Nothing to write home about, thanks." Timothy surveyed his friend critically. "I wonder," he said musingly, "if Romance could ever really find a lurking-place in that gearless, valveless little heart!" "Afraid not," said Philip. "Romance gives old fossils like me the go-by." "Don't talk rot of that kind, Phil," replied the boy quickly. "Any woman would be proud to marry you. Fool if she wasn't!" he added, with real sincerity. Philip responded by waving his glass in his friend's direction. "Mr. Rendle, your health and sentiment!" he remarked gravely. He drank; laid down the glass; and sat up. "And now, my son Timothy," he remarked briskly, "get it off your chest! Own up! Who is she? When do the banns go up--eh?"