The conversation was taking place in Mrs. Purcell's drawing-room round a cheerful fire. In the next room Olive was writing letters. She was, in truth, somewhat depressed by the non-appearance of Mallow, whom she had expected that evening, and felt little inclined for conversation. True to his promise, Aldean had called at Mallow's rooms after dinner, but, finding there neither his friend nor a telegram, had come over to enjoy himself at Campden Hill. But that the business on hand might not be neglected, he had left word that, if a telegram came, it was to be sent on to him at Mrs. Purcell's house. Mallow's absence had not surprised him. He concluded that he was in the neighbourhood of Poplar Street, Hain-hunting. As it was, Mallow was at that moment a prisoner in the Anarchist den, and, by his very warning to Aldean that his absence might be indefinite, he had done away with all chance of rescue. Jim's true errand to Campden Hill was to propose to Miss Ostergaard. He was determined to know the worst--or the best--before leaving for Italy. But it chanced that Mrs. Purcell's Johnsonian mania was strong upon her, for she pestered the poor boy with a hundred and one details concerning her celebrated Samuel, until he fervently wished that he or Johnson had never been born--not to speak of Bean, Goldy, Reynolds, and all other illustrious old bores idolized of Mrs. Purcell. He was hopelessly dazed with it all--and looked it. Nor did it add to his comfort in any degree to find Tui heartily laughing at his plight. It became too much for the wretched Jim. He grew both desperate and rude. "Seems to me, the most creditable thing about Johnson," said he, crossly, "was that he didn't murder Boswell." "Murder Boswell!" gasped Mrs. Purcell. "Murder his biographer?" "I mean the fellow who was always asking questions," explained Jim. "I can't think how Johnson put up with his silly gabble. Fancy a fellow asking another fellow what he'd do if he was shut up in a castle with a baby. Such bosh, y'know!" "Lord Aldean," said Mrs. Purcell, solemnly rising, "you are evidently not aware that it was Boswell's object to afford the great Doctor an opportunity for the display of his unrivalled fund of argument." "And of contradiction," hinted Tui, sweetly. Mrs. Purcell shook her head sadly. "I perceive that you are both of you of the earth, earthly," she said pityingly. "The solemnity of the learned lexicographer's periods is lost upon you. Rubina, let us leave these unideaed young people to their own puny, foolish ways." "Yes, Priscilla," said Miss Slarge, rising. "I must return to my desk." "No, Rubina, not with my consent. You shall do no such thing. To tax your brain at so late an hour is the height of folly. In the next room we will play draughts; it is a cheerful amusement." Miss Slarge sighed, but complied. She knew from experience the futility of attempting to argue with her ponderous sister.