“The midday meal? Exactly. I will lunch with you, Crichton. My name is Captain O’Hagan.” His mode of patronage was superb, incomparable. ————— III. PAMELA RETURNS. Pamela arrived late, a dainty figure in her neat serge costume; but the very curl that floated across her brow, the limp little hand that held the music-case, spoke of dejection. Her charming face was not habitually pale, O’Hagan felt assured, nor were such glorious eyes meant to be dimmed with threatening tears. “Hullo, Pam!” began her father heartily—and hesitated. “Why—won’t they take it?” A forlorn little shake of the head. “That horrible Ritzmann offered to publish it—if I would let him have it for nothing!” “For nothing! Didn’t he offer to pay anything?” “Not after I had declined to go to lunch with him!” Pamela laughed; not mirthfully. “Cheer up, Pam,” said Mr. Crichton, in a voice of abysmal gloom. “A—er—a friend——” “A friend, yes, Crichton,” interrupted O’Hagan. “Don’t be nervous.” “A friend of mine—_Captain_ O’Hagan—has called to see us!” Pamela blushed delightfully; O’Hagan bowed inimitably. “Didn’t Mr.—Parkins—stay?” Crichton coughed. “He couldn’t stop, after all!” He replied. Pamela removed her hat. “Good job, too,” she muttered under her breath. And then began that singular repast, throughout which O’Hagan talked as only O’Hagan can talk; talked himself into the hearts of the Crichtons. The old man’s natural resentment—which hitherto had not become wholly dispersed—melted before the geniality of his distinguished guest; Mr. Parkins was forgotten. Pamela forgot her troubles and became all smiles. Crichton burned with pride to note that Captain O’Hagan treated her as an intellectual equal. Of the Captain’s honourable and friendly intentions no man could doubt after thirty minutes in his company; and so that was a happy hour spent at the newsagent’s humble table. The meal despatched: “Now for the music!” said O’Hagan, and crossing the little room, he opened the piano. Pamela stared. “May I try over your new piece, Miss Crichton?” “Oh!” cried the girl. “You play?” “A little. I should like, as a pleasure, to hear your own rendering; as a matter of business I should prefer to play the piece myself.” “A matter of business——” “You hope to place these compositions?” “Oh!” said Pamela blankly; “yes,” and took the MS. from her music-case, adjusting it upon the piano-rack.