bless themselves with, that her native town in regard to appreciation of the dramatic art was past praying for; that Rosalind was a little dear, and that, for her part, if she touched a copper of their non-existent money she would never again know a moment’s peace: the landlady begged two favours, and two favours only—first, that she might give the little girl a good hug; second, that she might be permitted to stay up and bake them a meat and potato pie that would keep their bodies and souls together on to-morrow’s journey. They remembered Louisa presently, and went back to the white-faced girl, who had found company in a penny novelette left on the seat by someone tired of literature, and who made them go away again until she ascertained whether the young woman in the story married the brilliant young journalist or the middle-aged Peer. When justice had been done by presentation of the prize to brains, and the House of Lords, resigning itself without a murmur, had given its blessing and a cheque, she called them back, and the three held council in regard to the dinner in Eaton Square. Erb was still inclined to be obstinate, but the two young women were equally determined, and they took him across the bridge into King’s Road, where the committee purchased for him a new neck-tie, the while they sent him away to wash his face and hands. They left him presently at Sloane Square, and went home to Bermondsey, because Louisa was now forced to confess that she had become tired; Rosalind having the evening free, and being anxious to hear the report of Erb’s experience in Eaton Square, offered to read to her in Page’s Walk. Events progressed in Page’s Walk to the point of a cozy chat, where Louisa defied sleep in order to recite to Rosalind in their due order the circumstances of the many engagements from the respective starts to the individual finishes, with imitations of the voice of each suitor, and occasionally a parody of the gait. It was in the middle of a diverting account of Number Five—who had at least one defect in that he had no roof to his mouth—that Erb returned. The two surrounded him, firing questions. “One at a time,” said Erb, good humoured, because of the unexpected joy of seeing Rosalind again. “One at a time. There were small things first, sardines and what not—” “Hors d’œuvres,” said Rosalind. “I daresay. Anyhow, after that, soup.” “Can’t stand soup,” remarked Louisa. “There’s no stay in soup. Go on, Erb.” “Now comes what I may term,” said Erb, “the gist or point of this anecdote. The lady with the shoulders next to me—” “I should faint if I found myself going out like that,” declared Louisa, interrupting again. “How anyone can do it beats me. It’s like being caught in your disables.”