“By all means,” said I. “Come in!” She entered and looked round my little sitting-room. “What a pill-box in the sky! I had no idea it was as tiny as this. I think I shall call you Saint Simon Stylites.” I was in no mood for Agatha. I bowed ironically and inquired to what I owed the honour of the visit. “I want you to do me a favour--a great favour. I'm dying to see the new dances at the Palace Theatre. They say they dance on everything except their feet. I've got a box. Tom promised to take me. Now he finds he can't. I've telephoned all over the place for something uncompromising in or out of trousers to accompany me and I can't get hold of anybody. So I've come to you.” “I'm vastly flattered!” said I. She dismissed my sarcasm with bird-like impatience. “Don't be silly. If I had thought you would like it, I should have come to you first. I didn't want to bore you. But I did think you would pull me out of a hole.” “What's a hole?” I asked. “I've paid for a box and I can't go by myself. How can I? Do take me, there's a dear.” “I'm afraid I'm too dull for haunts of merriment,” said I. She regarded me reproachfully. “It isn't often I ask you to put yourself out for me. The last time was when I asked you to be the baby's godfather. And a pretty godfather you've been. I bet you anything you don't remember the name.” “I do,” said I. “What's it then?” “It's--it's----” I snapped my fingers. The brat's name had for the moment gone out of my distracted head. She broke into a laugh and ran her arm through mine. “Dorcas.” “Yes, of course--Dorcas. I was going to say so.” “Then you were going to say wrong, for it's Dorothy. Now you _must_ come--for the sake of penance.” “I'll do anything you please!” I cried in desperation, “so long as you'll not talk to me of my own affairs and will let me sit as glum as ever I choose.” Then for the first time she manifested some interest in my mood. She put her head to one side and scanned my face narrowly. “What's the matter, Simon?” “I've absorbed too much life the last few days,” said I, “and now I've got indigestion.” “I'm sorry, dear old boy, whatever it is,” she said affectionately. “Come round and dine at 7.30, and I promise not to worry you.” What could I do? I accepted. The alternative to procuring Agatha an evening's amusement was pacing up and down my bird-cage and beating my wings (figuratively) and perhaps my head (literally) against the bars. “It's awfully sweet of you,” said Agatha. “Now I'll rush home and dress.” I accompanied her down the lift to the front door, and attended her to her carriage. “I'll do you a good turn some day, dear,” she said as she drove off.