"What’s that, Ducky?" enquired Mrs. Welwyn, breaking off her little tune. She was a large, still handsome, and most unsuitably attired matron of about forty-five. Her task (and be it added, her joy) in life was the support of a rather useless husband, of whom she was inordinately proud because he happened to have been born a gentleman; and all the energy and resource of her honest simple nature had been devoted to the single aim of raising her children to what she considered his level rather than permit them to remain upon her own. In the case of the girls she had been singularly successful. Percy was her failure, but fortunately she regarded him as her greatest triumph. (Providence is very merciful to mothers in this respect.) And her love had not been utterly vain, for although her taste in dress was disastrous and her control of the letter "h" uncertain, her family were devoted to her. "You ask Mr. Mehta Ram all about it!" replied Amelia darkly. "The aforesaid Pumpherston," resumed Mr. Ram at once, "has threatened me with personal violence--to wit, a damn good skelp in the eyeball. I quote his _ipsissima verba_." "Oh, _has_ he?" replied Mrs. Welwyn, with decision. "Well that puts the lid on Pumpherston, anyway. He’s behind with his rent as it is; so the moment our Perce gets home to-night, up goes Perce to the second-floor back, and out goes my lord Pumpherston! I never could abide Scotchies, anyhow." "Martha," enquired a piping but painfully distinct voice from the fireside, "what does that black ’eathen want in ’ere?" "All right, Mother," replied Mrs. Welwyn. She turned soothingly to the Babu. "We’ll put things straight for you, Mr. Ram," she said reassuringly. "You’ll get justice in this country, never fear! Good-morning!" Mr. Mehta Ram, inarticulate with gratitude, salaamed himself out of the room, to the manifest relief of The Caution and The Cure. Mrs. Welwyn followed him onto the landing. "You’ll get your sugar-basin back, double-quick!" she announced in a loud voice. "That’ll frighten Pumpherston," she observed grimly, re-entering the room and shutting the double doors behind her. "It’s a pity losing a lodger, Mother," said Amelia. "Yes, dearie, it is," agreed Mrs. Welwyn with a sigh. "But it can’t be helped. I’ll tell you what, though. Run after that blackamoor and ask him if he has n’t got a friend wants a room--a nice peaceable creature like himself. The Museum Reading-Room is full of them, Father says. Tell him to pick us a good one. Take the children up with you. Father will be in here for his breakfast in a minute." As the door closed upon Amelia and her charges, Mrs. Welwyn crossed the room to her surviving parent’s side. "Well, Mother," she enquired cheerily, arranging the old lady’s shawl, "how goes it to-day? World a bit wrong?" The genial Mrs. Banks did not answer immediately. Obviously she was meditating a suitable repartee. Presently it came.