"Charles," Mr. Bundercombe confided, "my luncheon is being spoiled by people who mistake me for a gentleman who, I believe, does bear a singular resemblance to me. My name is Parker! This lady insists upon addressing me as Mr. Bundercombe. I do not wish to make a disturbance, but I insist upon it that you conduct this lady to her place and see that I am not disturbed any more." The _maitre d'hotel's_ attitude was unmistakable. Within the course of a few seconds Mrs. Bundercombe was restored to us. I thought it best to ignore the whole matter and plunged at once into a discussion of gastronomic matters. "I have ordered," I began, "some Maryland chicken." "Then you can eat it!" Mrs. Bundercombe snapped. "Not a mouthful of food do I take in this place with that painted hussy sitting by Joseph's side a few feet away! Oh, I'll fix him when I get him home!" She drew a little breath between her teeth, but she was as good as her word. She refused all food and sat with her arms folded, glaring across at Mr. Bundercombe's table. My admiration for that man of genius was never greater than on that day. So far from hurrying over his luncheon, he seemed inclined to prolong it. There was no lack of conversation between him and his companion. They even lingered over their coffee and they were still at the table when Eve and I had finished and Mrs. Bundercombe was sipping the hot water, the only thing that passed her lips during the entire meal. I paid the bill and rose. Mrs. Bundercombe, after a moment's hesitation, followed us. "Eve and I thought of going into the Academy for a few minutes," I said tentatively as we reached the entrance hall. Mrs. Bundercombe plumped herself down on a high-backed chair within a yard of the door. "I," she announced, "shall wait here for Joseph!" I realized the futility of any attempt to dissuade her; so we left her there, spent an hour at the Academy and did a little shopping. On our way back an idea occurred to me. We reentered the restaurant. Mrs. Bundercombe was still sitting there in a corner of the hall. "Thinks he can tire me out, perhaps!" she remarked in an explanatory manner. "Well, he just can't--that's all!" I moved a few steps farther in and glanced down the restaurant. Then I returned. "But, my dear Mrs. Bundercombe," I said, "your husband has gone long ago! He went out the other way. I am not sure--but I believe we saw him in Bond Street quite three quarters of an hour ago." "There is another way out?" Mrs. Bundercombe asked hastily. "Certainly there is," I told her; "into Jermyn Street." "Why was I not told?" she demanded, rising unwillingly to her feet. "Really," I assured her, "I didn't think of it." She followed us out. We all walked down Piccadilly. "Will you please," she said, "direct me to a tea-shop?" I pointed one out to her. She left us without a word of farewell. Eve and I turned down into the Haymarket. "Nice example your parents are setting us!" I remarked. Eve sighed.