No. 5, Kensington Lane, W., is the stronghold of British respectability. It is more respectable than the most respectable suburb. Its attitude to Mayfair is that of a mother to a daughter who has gone on the stage and made a success. Kensington Lane is almost tolerant of Mayfair. But not quite. It admits the success, but shakes its head. Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell took an early opportunity of drawing me aside, and began gently to pump me. After I had responded with sufficient docility to her leads, she reiterated her delight at seeing me again. I had concluded my replies with the words, “I am a struggling journalist, Mrs. Cresswell.” I accompanied the phrase with a half-smile which she took to mean—as I intended she should—that I was amusing myself by dabbling in literature, backed by a small, but adequate, private income. “Oh, come, James,” she said, smiling approvingly, “you know you will make a quite too dreadfully clever success. How dare you try to deceive me like that? A struggling journalist, indeed.” But I knew she liked that “struggling journalist” immensely. She would couple me and my own epithet together before her friends. She would enjoy unconsciously an imperceptible, but exquisite, sensation of patronage by having me at her house. Even if she discussed me with Margaret I was safe. For Margaret would give an altogether different interpretation of the smile with which I described myself as struggling. My smile would be mentally catalogued by her as “brave”; for it must not be forgotten that as suddenly as my name had achieved a little publicity, just so suddenly had it utterly disappeared. Towards the end of May, it happened that Julian dropped into my rooms about three o’clock, and found me gazing critically at a top-hat. “I’ve seen you,” he remarked, “rather often in that get-up lately.” “It _is_, perhaps, losing its first gloss,” I answered, inspecting my hat closely. I cared not a bit for Julian’s sneers; for the smell of the flesh-pots of Kensington had laid hold of my soul, and I was resolved to make the most of the respite which my system gave me. “What salon is to have the honour today?” he asked, spreading himself on my sofa. “I’m going to the Gunton-Cresswells,” I replied. Julian slowly sat up. “Ah?” he said conversationally. “I’ve been asked to meet their niece, a Miss Eversleigh, whom they’ve invited to stop with them. Funny, by the way, that her name should be the same as yours.” “Not particularly,” said Julian shortly; “she’s my cousin. My cousin Eva.” This was startling. There was a pause. Presently Julian said, “Do you know, Jimmy, that if I were not the philosopher I am, I’d curse this awful indolence of mine.” I saw it in a flash, and went up to him holding out my hand in sympathy. “Thanks,” he said, gripping it; “but don’t speak of it. I couldn’t endure that, even from you, James. It’s too hard for talking. If it was only myself whose life I’d spoilt—if it was only myself——”