“You ought to know the people who _count_,” said Aunt May. “So I do,” said Wilfred. “In my world.” “But that’s a very small world, my dear. . . . Huh? . . . I mean the great world.” “Society?” said Wilfred. “I can hardly see myself performing with that troupe of trained seals.” “And why not, pray?” asked Aunt May, bridling. “That is where you belong, on both sides of the house. Your name alone. . . . Huh? . . . the sole representative of your branch. . . .” “And you have become quite nice-looking,” added Aunt Fanny. “Thanks, ladies, thanks,” said Wilfred bowing. “Nor are we entirely forgotten,” said Aunt May with dignity, “notwithstanding the parvenues who crowd everywhere. . . .” “And the girls of that world are so much prettier and more charming,” put in Aunt Fanny. Aunt May frowned at her again. But it was the seeming injudicious remark of Aunt Fanny’s which arrested Wilfred’s attention, and sent his mind cavorting down the very avenue that they wished. It was true! The girls of _his_ world, writers and artists, good fellows as they were—well, that was just the trouble with them, they were such good fellows! When women descended into the arena to compete with men, they lost something of their allure. What cynic had he heard say that? He himself, would never have dared say it out loud amongst his friends; but was it not true? And sometimes, confound them! they beat a man at his own trade! How could you make love to a girl whose stories were in greater demand by the editors than your own? . . . Why not be honest with yourself, and confess that you were enough of a Turk at heart to be attracted by the idea of exquisite girls especially trained and groomed to please men. Very reprehensible, of course, but as long as there were such girls going, why not have one? Wilfred was recalled to his surroundings by hearing Aunt May say, casually: “Every time we see Cousin Emily Gore she asks after you.” So that was the milk in the cocoanut! “Kind of her,” said Wilfred. “She has several times given you an opening to call; but you never would.” “That was when I was working for her husband,” said Wilfred. “No sucking up to the boss’s wife for me, thanks.” “Wilfred! What an expression!” “But I’m on my own now; the case is altered.” “And Cousin Emily says,” added Aunt Fanny, “that there’s such a shortage of dancing men in society, they’re at a premium!” Aunt May looked annoyed. Fanny _would_ say the word too much! “Yes, so I’ve heard,” drawled Wilfred. “Low society is really more select.” “Will you call on Cousin Emily Gore? . . . Huh?” asked Aunt May. “Haven’t got a Prince Albert.” “We are told it is no longer indispensable.” “Oh, they’ll take us in anything now, eh?” “_Do_ be sensible, Wilfred! . . . Will you go?” “Oh well, I suppose an author’s got to know all sides of life—even the lowest.” The two ladies exchanged a look of mutual congratulation.