"I got a bit of a bump dropping through that window," admitted Peggy, indicating the aperture through which she had gained admission to her home. "But it doesn't hurt much, except when you bend your knee suddenly. Now I must go and have tea in the schoolroom. When I see Mother I shall tell her about you, and she will know what to do. If you hear anybody coming, turn out the light and creep under the model-throne. It is hollow underneath. I have often been there, playing at robbers with myself." Philip turned up the overhanging drapery, and dubiously surveyed the grimy recesses of his last refuge. "Supposing I get underneath," he enquired, "and it turns out to be only you?" Peggy considered. Then her face dimpled. The game of conspirators was, indeed, exhilarating. "I shall knock seven times on the floor with a stick," she announced, "before I come down the passage. Then you will know." "That will be splendid," agreed Philip. "You are awfully clever," he added admiringly, as the directress of his fortunes turned to go. Peggy swung round again, with her fingers on the doorhandle. A sudden rush of colour swept across her face and neck, and for a moment her wide brown eyes met Philip's. Then the lashes dropped again. "I say, Phil," she said shyly, "I'll be your Lady if you like." Next moment she was gone, and our knight, feeling that he had been somewhat remiss in not having made the suggestion himself, was left listening to the sound of his Lady's feet limping down the passage. CHAPTER IX GENUS IRRITABILE MONTAGU FALCONER had had a busy day. At breakfast he had sent for, and sworn at, the cook. The cook, who was a lady of spirit and accustomed to being sent for, had reserved her defence until the storm had spent itself, and then pointed out with admirable composure and undeniable truth that an omelette which is uneatable at a quarter to ten may have been--and in fact was--in perfect condition when placed upon the table at nine. She then withdrew in good order, parrying the intimation that she might take a month's notice, which hurtled through the door after her, with the rejoinder that she recognised no orders save those of her mistress. When she had gone, Mrs. Falconer said calmly:-- "I wouldn't give cook notice quite so often, old man, if I were you. Some day she will take it, you know, and then where will you be? Don't forget her marrow-bones: they are the best in London." In reply Montagu Falconer picked up the omelette between his finger and thumb and threw it into the fire, where it created an unpleasant smell. After this promising beginning, he proceeded to his day's work. As he entered the studio he noticed a middle-aged woman pass the window, supporting one end of a basket, at the other end of which staggered a tumble-haired little girl. It was the laundress, with her daughter.