But at this my gorge rose. "At any rate," I said, "he's going to Mrs. Thornton's from next Friday to Tuesday; he told me so yesterday." "The little worm," said Sheila. "'Worm' is the word," I said; and as we remained to abuse Bobbie for another ten minutes with much mutual goodwill I suppose he had once more justified his existence by a successful feat of "fusing." * * * * * [Illustration: "Yes, that's the sort of man they would give work to--A man wiv no principles! Why, only last week 'e was 'ad up for beating 'is wife, and now _'E'S WORKIN' ON A CHURCH_!"] * * * * * AT THE PLAY. "The Clever Ones." I do wish I had been one of the clever ones, for they seemed to be in Mr. Sutro's confidence and able to penetrate the obscurity of his motives. At first even I could understand something of the scheme, which ran (as I thought) like this:--_Wilfrid Callender_, a rich bachelor of Harrow and Oxford, has a socialist friend, _David Effick_, at whose meetings he happens to have encountered a Girton girl, _Doris Marrable_ (pretty daughter of a hop-merchant in affluent circumstances), who affects revolutionary ideals. In order to win the approval of this lady he represents himself as an anarchist plumber, earning five pounds a week; and to the horror of her family they become affianced. Having no sort of intention of keeping up the imposture, even if he could, and being fearful lest the exposure of his wealth and education would, in her present state, alienate her affections, he proposes by practical demonstration to disgust her with the mode of life which she designs to lead. In collusion with _Effick_ he arranges that he shall invite _Doris_ to take tea at his friend's attic in Bethnal Green, and reveal to her the sordid conditions of existence in that quarter.