There were faded photographs on the mantelpiece of ladies with exuberant smiles, calculated to disarm any criticism in regard to their eccentric attire, their signatures sprawled across the lower right hand corner, “Ever yours most affectionate!” A frame that had seen stormy days outside provincial theatres hung on the wall with the address of its last exhibition half rubbed off. Erb as he listened to the girl’s serious corrections and warning, guessed that the half-dozen portraits it contained were all of Rosalind’s mother; they ranged from one as Robinson Crusoe with a white muff to a more matronly representation of (judging from her hat) a designing Frenchwoman holding a revolver in one hand, and clearly prepared to use this. In another she was fondling a child, whose head and face were almost covered by a stage wig, and the child bore some far-away resemblance to the present instructress. On Rosalind limping across the room to place on the fire an economical lump of coal, Erb framed an expression of sympathy; common-sense most fortunately gagged him. “You left school when you were very young?” said the girl, looking over her shoulder from the fireplace. “Pawsed the sixth standard when I was—” “Oh, please, please! Don’t say pawsed.” “I passed the sixth standard when I was twelve, because I had to. Father was Kentish born, mother wasn’t. Both died in the”—Rosalind put her hands apprehensively to her ears—“in the hospital in one week, both in one week, and I had to set to and get shot of the Board School and go out.” “As?” she asked curiously. “As chief of the Transport Department to the principal railway companies,” said Erb glibly, “and personal friend, and, I may say, adviser to his Royal—” “We will proceed,” said Rosalind, haughty on the receipt of sarcasm, “with the lesson, please. There is much to be done in the way of eradicating errors in your speech.”