"It's all right," he answered. "I've got four wishes, so I can always unwish one if it goes wrong." Then he paused. "I wish," he said, very slowly and distinctly, "that I may be irresistible to all women." I burst out laughing. "Good heavens," I said, "you've done it now! Think what will happen if you run up against a girls' school! What on earth made you wish that?" An obstinate look came into Bruce's face. "It's Cynthia," he said. "Cynthia West, you know. I want to marry her, and she won't give up the stage." "Well, you needn't have indulged in quite such a sweeping demand," I protested. Bruce looked a little ashamed. "I thought I'd be on the safe side," he explained. "You see, I might get tired of Cynthia one day, and then it would save wasting a second wish." "Well, I'm blessed!" I said. "For a lover I think you're about the most cold-blooded cynic I ever struck. What are you going to wish next?" "I must have some money," Bruce said thoughtfully. "You must," I agreed, "plenty! Eight hundred a year won't go far with Cynthia, to say nothing of the others." "What about a billion in Consols?" suggested Bruce. I shook my head. "Too much," I said. "Think what _The Clarion_ and _Reynolds's_ would say about it! You'd have no peace." "I know," exclaimed Bruce suddenly. "I'll wish that I had as much money as John P. Fox, the American Rubber King." "That ought to see you through all right," I remarked approvingly. "The papers say he is worth six millions." Bruce again held up the Nadir Bandar. "I wish," said he, "that I had as much money as John P. Fox, the American Rubber King." "Two up and one to play," I said, laughing. "You may as well have a third while you're about it; that will still leave you one to hedge with." Bruce thought a moment. "I wish that I may live for ever," he said. "Good!" I cried. "You'll be able to read Hall Caine's next novel right through." With this hopeful reflection I got up from my chair and walked to the window. "Now this tomfoolery's over," I observed, with a yawn, "what are we going to do?" Bruce scratched his ear. "I shall go and call on Cynthia, I think," he said in a rather apologetic voice. "After all, you know," he added lamely, "there might be something in it." "Superstition," I began, "when coupled with--" Then I stopped abruptly. The excellent aphorism that I was about to utter was never completed. "What's up?" asked Bruce, turning to me in surprise. I pointed to the door of the room. "Look at that," I said. It was opening, slowly and stealthily, without a sound. We stared at it in amazement. "Who's there?" called out Bruce sharply. There was a moment's pause, and then, very quietly, Mrs. Jones slipped into the room and shut the door behind her. She was breathing quickly, and her face was curiously flushed. For several seconds we all three stood facing each other. Then Bruce spoke. "What's the matter, Mrs. Jones? Are you ill?" he asked.