We were all charmed, except ARTHUR, and except PERCIVAL himself. PERCIVAL composes songs, called "_Dreaming Eyes_," "_Far from Thee_," "_Ever_"; besides, he can play WAGNER, and MASCAGNI, and TOSTI, and all kinds of real classical music, and didn't quite like to be treated as if he were a mere music-hall singer. He is a gentle, amiable creature, without any pose, and with (as I know _now_) not the very smallest intention or desire to steal the heart of one who belonged to another. It would be difficult to find anyone less likely than PERCIVAL to break up--let us say, for instance, a happy English home. ARTHUR thought otherwise; to ARTHUR, PERCIVAL seemed a _Don Juan_, a gay _Lothario_, a very _Lovelace_, the most dangerous of young troubadours. And he glared--really, glared is the only word--so much while I talked to poor young PERCIVAL that I, also, actually began to think there must be something in it; and, from mischief, I talked to him the more. After dinner, we danced. To tease ARTHUR, who was snubbing everyone and looking sulky, I couldn't resist sitting in the conservatory a little while with FREDDY'S friend. True, my conversation with this reckless _Rizzio_ might have been, word for word, carried on between two provincial old ladies: and yet, the knowledge that ARTHUR wouldn't have believed it, gave a sort of imaginary romantic wickedness to the whole thing. He asked me if I had read _Trilby_, and said he had, curiously enough, never seen the _Shop Girl_. We agreed, that though we didn't much like the winter, still it was certainly a nice change after the summer. We had reached this point, when ARTHUR came into the conservatory; I rose, so did PERCIVAL, and at the same time he handed me a little piece of paper on which he had, while he talked, been writing something in pencil.... I walked away with ARTHUR, mechanically squeezing the little bit of paper in my hand. "What," he said, furiously, "was that letter that young fool gave you?" Becoming frightened, I denied that he had given me a letter, slipped it into my mouth, and slowly ate it.... We had a scene. I cried; we made it up, and he gave me a new brooch afterwards. The next day I seized an opportunity to tell PERCIVAL that he _mustn't_ do such things, as it made ARTHUR very angry, and also to ask what was on the piece of paper. He looked at me. "Why, Miss GLADYS," he said, "didn't you show it to your future husband?" "What was it?" I asked, timidly. "It was my publisher's address. You said you would like to have some of my songs, and----" Thank heaven, he has gone away now, and as FREDDY is always cycling, there is peace again. But advise me what to do about ARTHUR. Your affectionate friend, GLADYS. * * * * * [Illustration: THE GREAT PRIZE FIGHT. _Johnnie_ (_who finds that his Box, £20, has been appropriated by "the Fancy"_). "I BEG YOUR PARDON, BUT THIS IS _MY_ BOX!" _Bill Bashford._ "OH, IS IT? WELL, WHY DON'T YOU TIKE IT?"]