“Friar’s Court”; why not perform his own errands, instead of eternally commanding? For the first time in his life for years back, he felt a quickening pulse at his unusual action. It was easily found, and the distance very short. How homely all the little houses looked, with their drawn blinds and red lights! He felt for one moment envious of the poor. Number 5: he soon found it, and gently knocked. It was opened by Alice, peering out into the darkness, not recognising who it was who stood there. Unaccustomed to thus visiting the poor, he now felt somewhat at a standstill. His errand seemed absurd; he remembered he did not even know the name of the girl for whom he had come to enquire. Yet now it was too late to draw back, and once more he settled into the cold man of the world he really was. His tone, if anything, was more than usually proud. He remembered with irritation that unaccountably he had stepped from the dignity of his position. “I have come to enquire about a beggar girl who is reported to be living here. I have brought her a Form of Entrance for the ‘Poor Sisters’ Home.’ You will perhaps give it to her.” So saying, he took out a book of forms he kept already signed, and handed one to Alice. But just then Marigold’s form appeared behind the stouter woman, and her voice entered into the conversation. “Will you come in, sir? The house is quite clean and tidy inside, though it’s small.” Again the longing to break through forms and ceremonies overcame him, just as suddenly as it had disappeared. After all, that was the voice he wanted--the voice that failed to remind him he was stooping near the ground in thus visiting the very poor. Yet his tone was just as cold and even, as he said: “Thank you! For one moment, I will step inside. I remember I must fill in your name, which was not given me when I saw you at the Palace.” He came in, and the little door closed. He was inside a kitchen spotlessly clean and very bright. A meal was on the table, and everything looked very nice and cheerful too. But how tall he looked in this little doll’s house, and how novel to him the situation! Marigold ran and brought him a chair, and dusted it off with her own apron as she had seen the poor folks do, and did it all with such a charm of manner, that--well, he sat down on the chair, if only to see what it felt like doing as he was bid. Yet never did he smile, but took the chair with the utmost condescension, sitting there condescendingly. She stood back a few steps, her hands folded, waiting demurely, but with an exquisite colour in her cheeks. “Your name?” said he, placing the paper on the table and bringing out a fountain pen. “Marigold, please your Holiness.” “Marigold what?” “Nothing but Marigold, please your Holiness.” “But,” said he, and looked at her, and somehow almost forgot what he was going to say, “you must have another name.” “Yes, I _have_ another name, but I’d rather not give it you. Not just now!”