All the crowd had a good clap and were very excited, for you see Mr. Withersq had wrote the best poem of the top class of the swankiest school of poetry in Briton and had been made head poet for his trouble which is how those things are done and they choose a new one every few years or so when the old ones get stale. But Mr. Withersq took the bun by laying his littel crown of leaves at Selia’s feet with a low bow (not wishing to go out in the street with it on) after which he hung it on one arm, and taking Selia on the other they walked forth amid the admiring throng waving them a harty goodbye. CHAPTER FIVE “Now,” said Selia, “what about a bit of food?” These words although not intended to be were overheard by two of the pupils from the school who had also come out. “Oh pray have a snack with us” said the plumper one, “I am Gerald Majpottel and this is my brother Rupert. Our father is a lord. We are in the satire class, we write a good few poems and move among the very best.” “In that case,” replied the hungry Selia, “we shall be delited to come thanks.” So they slipped all four into a taxi and very soon arrived at the Majpottels house in Park Lane, a tall place with green blinds, behind whose covert pink housemaids flitted and peeped in galore, beneath the swey of a handsom butler who was proudly figetting with the blind tassel in the diningroom window. Chucking one of the pretty housemaids under the chin Gerald Majpottel and his young brother led Mr. Withersq within and politely told them where to wash their hands. The bathroom was on top of the stares and very smart being all lined through with pink and blue tiles. The rich looking bath was pink china, almost enough to have a swim in with a few neat texts stampt on it to wile away the time while soaking, and a pretty mat saying “BATH” to step out on to after. “Oh, behold” cried Selia to Mr. Withersq who was doing his nails with a pin while she wiped up above the wrists. For they had the makings of good stuff although of humbel extract. “Look dearest Harold how very chaste, in this little cupboard are the under attires of our hosts, arent they indeed smart?” Mr. Withersq fainting with jealousy replied: “Oh Selia, they are indeed modish, how lucky we struck with them, perhaps they will teach us a few wrinkles to success.” For in the airing cupboard by the bath reposed elegant heaps of under attire. On the right hand side beneath a little card printed “Gerald” was a great pile of blue ones made some of finest fleece and some of silk both vests and other things while behind these lurked shirts in hues of pale and bright tones very tricky indeed. On the left was a similar heep only with a card saying “Rupert” and all these were pink the same. “See,” cried Selia, “they are all marked in sewn letters with their own names, and a little crown above. Isn’t it pretty? That is because their father is a lord you know.”