A long, clear note came from the set over the way, with the gay rattle of piano keys beneath quick fingers. “How well that girl of Martin’s sings!” I said irrelevantly. “I saw her once afterward. She was with her husband; it _must_ have been Pray, a long-faced, badly dressed chap. I was with Bob Piety, at the Aquarium. I suppose they had come up from the country, determined on amusement; married people have their moments of _ennui._ They looked out of place. Adeline was so changed that I was not sure of her. Her good looks were gone and her mouth was harsh. She looked at me; I looked at her. I turned to Bob and said in a loud voice: “‘Auntie!’ “That used to be my pet name for her. She turned to her husband and returned very clearly: “‘Yes.’ “That was all. We both made our explanations--I to Bob, she to her husband. I didn’t see her again that evening; I’ve never seen her since. Dead!” He got up hurriedly and looked round for his hat. “See after her,” he said huskily, jerking his head toward pretty Carrie, “I can’t--to-night. Take her to a music hall--anything.” He went away abruptly, leaving me a fair field. He was bent as he walked. He looked too old for the Inn; we don’t want graybeards. “What’s up with him?” demanded Carrie. “Liver. Have some more champagne?” I caught up the bottle. “No, thanks.” She snatched her glass away and the wine slobbered out on the cloth. “Who was she?” she persisted. “I don’t care a brass farthing. She’d be as old as the hills, if she was alive. But--who was she?” “A lady that he knew years ago.” “Lady!” sneered Carrie, spitefully, with a nasty, upward curl of her ripe lip. “Why, she was the same as me--he said so.” “She was a woman, my dear; that’s all. Have you really finished? Then where shall we go?” She put on her hat in a hurry and cast decisively for a popular contortionist at one of the halls--I think it was the Royal. “They say he twists himself about something awful,” she added, with a little grimace and a gleeful shudder. We clattered down the stairs. The oak thudded heavily behind our quick feet, as if it had regrets for Adeline. JIMMY. HIS full name was James Adolphus Carol, but everyone called him just Jimmy. He was Jimmy to all of us in the Inn; Jimmy to the music-hall managers and music-hall artistes. He was a little spindle-shanked fellow, like a jockey, but a bit too gentlemanly. He had bulging, gray-blue eyes and a sunken, heavily freckled face. His top hat was always very sleek and a little on one side, but the rest of his dress fell short of perfect finish. I’ve seen him with his shoe tied up with string and his collar pinned together in front because he’d lost his last stud.