“Sit down, Mr. Crichton.” Mr. Crichton sat down. “You”—to the tottering pugilist—“put on your filthy rags, and get out.” Parkins steadied himself against the door. “What d’you mean, get out? I’ve got more right ’ere than you! Just wait, you cowardly skunk! I’ll ’ave you yet! I’ll quod you for this!” “You have one minute to get out. If I hear from you again, I shall give you in charge for assault and battery!” O’Hagan, lolling against the counter, swung the monocle carelessly. The amplitude of his nonchalance prevailed. Parkins, recalling that he had struck the first blow, stuffed his “dicky” into his coat, resumed that garment, and began to unbolt the door. With never a backward glance, the discredited Mr. Parkins made his exit. One of a curious group, without, entered on the pretence of buying a halfpenny paper. He was served by the trembling newsagent, but save for the presence of a hatless, distinguished gentleman, saw nothing to satisfy his curiosity in Mr. Crichton’s shop. “Now, Mr. Crichton,” said O’Hagan, the customer departed, “in reference to Pamela: has the fellow, Parkins, pretensions?” Mr. Crichton, _pro tempore_, was past protest. “He’s an old pal o’ mine,” he explained, unsteadily, “and well off—and——” “Pamela does not approve him?” “Well, she’s got such superior ideas. But Parkins——” “It is out of the question, Crichton. Dismiss the idea. Mrs. Crichton was a woman of higher social standing than yourself?” The newsagent felt suffocation to be an imminent danger. “She was the daughter of a lit’r’y gentleman——” “Singular that she should have married you! Her father was badly in debt, possibly?” “Look here——!” “I say, possibly the late Mrs. Crichton’s father was financially indebted to you?” Crichton, cowed: “I pretty well kept him, for years!” “Ah! poor girl! A tragedy of poverty! But you have not neglected Pamela’s education?” “She’s had the best that money could give her!” O’Hagan seized the hand of the bewildered Mr. Crichton and wrung it warmly. “There are redeeming features in your character, Crichton!” he said. “For your endeavours on the girl’s behalf I can forgive you much. Rely upon my friendship! And Pamela has literary inclinations?” “No, sir,” answered the newsagent, whose world was being turned topsy-turvy, who alternately believed that he was in the company of a madman or that he himself was mad. “She’s a musician; I’ve had her properly taught; she composes!” Above all the chaos reigning in his mind, paternal pride asserted its sovereignty and his voice proclaimed it. “Ah! composes? She has just gone to see a publisher? She had music in the leather case?” “Her new piece, sir. She reckons it’s goin’ to make her!” “What has she published?” Mr. Crichton, crestfallen: “Nothing, sir! You see, she’s unknown. They won’t give her a chance.” “She will return to lunch?” The newsagent stared. “Pamela’ll be home to dinner!” he said.