"That is Miss Luker," says Kelly. "Filthy Lucre is, I believe, the name she usually goes by, on account of her obvious unpalatableness (my own word, you will notice), and her overwhelming affection for coin small and great." "She looks very untidy," says Monica. "She does, indeed. She is, too, an inveterate chatterbox. She might give any fellow odds and beat him; I don't believe myself there is so much as one comma in her composition." "Poor girl! What an exertion it must be to her!" "Musn't it? Especially nowadays, when one _never_ goes for much, real hard work of any kind being such a bore. That's her mother beside her. She is always beside her. Fat little woman, d'ye see?" "Yes, a nice motherly-looking little woman she seems to be." "Horribly motherly! She has a birthday for every month in the year!" "How?" says Monica, opening her eyes. "I don't so much allude to her own natal day (which by this time I should say is obscure) as to her children's. They came to her at all seasons, from January to December. There are fourteen of them." "Oh, it _can't_ be possible! Poor, _poor_ soul!" says Monica, feeling quite depressed. "She isn't poor; she is very well off," says Mr. Kelly, obtusely. "Much better than she deserves. So don't grieve for her. She glories in her crime. Well, it's 'a poor heart that never rejoices,' you know: so I suppose she is right. There's Miss Fitzgerald: do you admire her?" "I am sure I _ought_," says Monica, simply; "but I _don't_." "You have the courage of your opinions. Every one down here admires her tremendously. I agree with you, you know, but then," softly, "_I_ am nobody!" "Perhaps you think I am jealous," says Monica. "But indeed I am not." "What a baby you are!" says Mr. Kelly. "_Who_ could suppose you jealous of Bella Fitzgerald? 'Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere,' and I shouldn't think the fair Bella would have _much_ motion if put in comparison with you. She always calls 'a spade a spade, and Branson's Essence of Coffee,' etc. In fact, she is material." "That means she has common sense. Why call her 'material'?" "Never mind. It is quite _immaterial_," says Mr. Kelly, tranquilly, after which silence reigns triumphantly for a moment or two, until a new figure presents itself on a small platform below them. "Ah! there is Desmond," says Kelly. "He looks," innocently, "as if he was looking for somebody." "I hope he will find her," remarks Miss Beresford, with some acerbity and a most unnecessary amount of color. "Perhaps he is looking for _me_," says Mr. Kelly, naively. "Perhaps so," dryly. "At all events, whoever it is, she, or he, or it, seems difficult of discovery. Did you ever see so woebegone a countenance as his?" "I think he looks quite happy enough," says Monica, without sympathy. Kelly lets his languid gaze rest on her for a moment. "What has Desmond done to you?" he says at last, slowly. "Done?" haughtily. "Nothing. What _could_ he do?"