George inhaled a vast breath of smoke; let it go in a misty cloud. With a quick action he laid his pipe upon the table; sprang to her side. His right arm he put about her, in his left hand he clasped both hers. “Nothing wrong,” he cried brightly; “not a bit wrong. Mary, it's a game, a plot, a dickens of a game.” “Well, tell me,” she said, beaming. “It wants your help.” “Well, tell me, tell me, stupid.” “You will help?” “Of course, if I can. Oh, do tell me, Georgie!” “I'll show you, that's quicker.” He sprang to the basket; unstrapped the lid; threw it back. A most exquisite orange head upreared. A queenly back arched. A beautiful figure stepped forth. “_George!_” Mary cried. “George! _The Rose!_ You've found her!” George gave a nervous little crack of laughter. “I never lost her.” “Never lost her! No, but she's been--” “I've had her all the time!” “_All the_--” “I took her!” “You _took_ her! _You_--took her! Oh, George, speak sense! Whatever can you mean?” Mary had jumped to her feet when first the Rose stepped forth; now was close to her George--face a little white, perplexed; hands clasped. He cried: “Sweetest dove of a Mary, don't talk like that. Sit down and I'll tell you.” “But what have you done?--what have you _done?_” The true woman was in that question. How they jostle us, these women, with their timid little flutterings when we are trying to put a case before them in our manlike way!--first spoiling their palate with all the sugar, so that they may not taste the powder. “I'll tell you what I've done if you'll only sit down.” She went to the seat. “Now laugh, Mary. You simply must laugh. I can't tell you while you look like that. Laugh, or I shall tickle you.” She laughed merrily--over her first bewilderment. “But, Georgie, it's something fearful that you've done, isn't it?” He sat beside her; took her hands. “It's terrific. Look here. From the beginning. When I told old Marrapit I'd passed my exam. I asked for that 500 pounds--you know--to start us.” She nodded. “He refused. He got in an awful state at the bare idea. I asked him to lend it--he got worse. Mary, he simply would not give or advance a penny: you know what that meant?” The dejected droop of her mouth gave answer. “Well, then, I concocted a plot. Old Wyvern helped me--Professor Wyvern, you know. I thought that if I took his cat, his beloved Rose, and lay low with her for a bit, he would--” “Oh, _George!_” “Well?” “Nothing--finish.”