It is a singular fact that the secondary stage of the drama which I am relating was tremendously, vitally, influenced by the marriage of Mr. Luke Shooter, junior partner in Shooter’s, a firm of wholesale ribbon merchants in Cannon Street. Luke Shooter did not know it. Luke Shooter had nothing whatever to do with the drama; it is very, probable that he never even heard of it, except such trifling fragments as got into the newspapers. Nevertheless, by the mere fact of marrying, Luke Shooter unconsciously changed the course of events in the City of Pleasure. For he was a man of broad views, and he liked people to think well of him, and so it occurred that, at his suggestion, the multitudinous staff of Shooter’s was given a complete holiday on the day of his marriage, and that day happened to be Tuesday, May 4. So much for Mr. Luke Shooter. Many of the employés spent the latter half of the day in the City of Pleasure, which was now the rage, the craze, and the vogue of London, and among these were the twin sisters, Pauline and Rosie Dartmouth. Pauline and Rosie were typists in the house of Shooters. Their age was twenty-six. They were tall, and rather slim; only Rosie, the younger, was not quite so slim as Pauline. Pauline was dark; Rosie was inclined to fairness. In the partnership between them Pauline supplied the common sense, while Rosie supplied the gaiety; each supplied a considerable amount of beauty and charm, and a sum of thirty-five shillings a week. It is obvious that on a total income of three pounds ten a week, or a hundred and eighty-two pounds a year, two girls living together in a small flat, with sense and gaiety and full opportunity for acquiring ribbons at wholesale prices, may have a very good time and cut quite a pretty figure in the world. And this Pauline and Rosie certainly did manage to do. They were orphans, and had been for a very long time. They came to the City by the Tube from their flat in Shepherd’s Bush, and Pauline put a florin down for the two of them at the northern entrance gates, just as though they had been ordinary visitors; as, in fact, at that moment they were. A few persons noticed them, but quite casually, and only because they were dressed--and well dressed--almost exactly alike. There are so many beautiful young women in London that Londoners seldom turn their heads to look at one. It is left to Frenchmen to rave about the blond charm of the Anglo-Saxon “mees.” What exuberant adjectives the Frenchman would find to express his delight if he penetrated further north, into Staffordshire, Lancashire, and Yorkshire, where ugly faces and bad complexions are practically unknown, it is impossible to guess.