"Why, I asked you to play twice this afternoon, and you refused," cried Clendon, in some anger. "Well, I've changed my mind But you can play also, if you like." "No, thank you. I've--I've got an engagement." Tommy moved close to the young man and laughed. "You've got a very cross face." At this Clendon laughed also, and his cross face cleared. "Oh, I'll be delighted to play." "And what about Miss Pethram?" asked Maxwell, rather anxiously. "Miss Pethram has gone inside to await the arrival of the post." "Isn't she coming out again?" "I think not." "If you will excuse me, Miss Valpy, I won't play just at present." "Oh, never mind." So Maxwell stalked away in a very bad temper with himself, with Miss Pethram, and with everything else. In any one but a lover it would have been sulks, but in the _ars amoris_ it is called despair. Tommy held her racket like a guitar, and, strumming on it with her fingers, hummed a little tune--a vulgar little tune which she had picked up from a common street boy-- "Tho' I'm an earl, And she's a girl, Far, far below my level, Oh, Mary Jane, You give me pain, You wicked little----" "Thomasina!" cried the scandalised Mrs. Valpy, and Thomasina laughed. CHAPTER II. WANTED, A CHAPERON. "We are told in stories olden Dragons watched the apples golden, Quick to send a thief to Hades. Now no fruit the world-tree ladens, Apples gold are dainty maidens, And the dragons are old ladies." After dinner--a meal cooked, conducted, and eaten on strictly digestive principles--most of the inmates of Pinchler's retired to bed. Sleep was necessary to the well-being of these wrecks of humanity, so those who could sleep went to their repose with joyful hearts, and those who could not, put off the evil hour precluding a restless night by going to the drawing-room for a little music. Here they sat in melancholy rows round the room, comparing notes as to their physical sensations, and recommending each other patent medicines. Some of the younger people sang songs and played popular airs on the out-of-tune piano furnished by Pinchler's. During the intervals between the songs scraps of curious conversation could be heard somewhat after this fashion-- "There's nothing like a glass of hot water in the morning." "Dry toast, mind; butter is rank poison." "Rub the afflicted part gently and breathe slowly." "Put a linseed poultice at the nape of the neck." With such light and instructive conversation did the wrecks beguile their leisure hours, keeping watchful eyes on the clock so as not to miss taking their respective medicines at the right times. Mrs. Pinchler, a dry, angular woman with a glassy eye and a fixed smile, revolved round the drawing-room at intervals, asking every one how they felt.