"I hear my nephew and niece have been taking liberties with your rug," he went on, but feeling that he might have expressed the last sentence better, he hurriedly blotted the check and with a bow handed it to the proprietress. "No doubt," he added, "you will overlook it this time? I am having a new rug sent to you immediately. What--er--skin do you prefer? Bear? I mean to say, the rug." He tried to think of any other animal whose personality survived in rugs, but could think of none except a rabbit, and condemning the ambiguity of the English language waited in some embarrassment for Mrs. Easton to reply. She was by this time so surely convinced of John's interest in her that she opened to him with a trilling flutter of complacency like a turkey's tail. "It happened to be a bearskin," she murmured. "But children will be children. We oughtn't to forget that we were all children once, Mr. Touchwood." "So no doubt," John nervously continued, "you will be glad to see them when they come back to-night. Their room...." "I shall give orders at once, Mr. Touchwood." He wished that she would not harp upon the Mr. Touchwood; he seemed to detect in it a kind of reproachful formality; but he thanked her and hoped nervously she would now leave him to George. "Oh dear me, why the girl hasn't lit the fire," Mrs. Easton exclaimed, evidently searching for a gracious action. George eying his brother with a glance between admiration and disquietude told his landlady that he thought the fire smoked a little. "I shall have the chimney swept to-morrow," she answered as grandly as if she had conferred a dukedom upon John and an earldom upon George. Then with a special smile that was directed not so much toward the successful author as toward the gallant male she tucked away the check in her bodice, where it looked as forlorn as a skiff upon the tumultuous billows of the Atlantic, and went off to put on her green satin for dinner. "We shall all hope to see you at half-past seven," she paused in the doorway to assure John. "You know, I'll tell you what it is, old chap," said George when they were alone again. "_You_ ought to have taken up the commission business and _I_ ought to have written plays. But thanks very much for tiding me over this difficult time." "Yes," said John, a little sharply. "Your wife's current account wasn't flowing quite strongly enough, was it?" "Wonderful woman, Mrs. Easton," George declared. "She has a keen eye for business." "And for pleasure too, I should imagine," said John, austerely. "But get on your coat, George," he added, "because we must go out and inquire at all the police stations in turn for news of Bertram and Viola. We can't stop here discussing that woman."