Besides, my darling, you know the interest I take in Miss Tomlinson; she is one of the brightest little spots on my hobby-horse. Like all our servants, like everybody in my employ, she has been brought to my notice through the unhappy medium of the Police Court over which it is my destiny to preside. Our servant, Wyke, a man with a beautiful nature, is the son of a person I committed for trial for marrying three wives. To this day, Wyke is ignorant as to which of those three wives he is the son of! Cook was once a notorious dipsomaniac, and has even now not entirely freed herself from early influences. Popham is the unclaimed charge of a convicted baby-farmer. Even our milkman came before me as a man who had refused to submit specimens to the analytic inspector. And this poor child, what is she? AGATHA POSKET. Yes, I know. MR. POSKET. The daughter of a superannuated General, who abstracted four silk umbrellas from the Army and Navy Stores--and on a fine day too! [_BEATIE ceases playing._ MR. BULLAMY. Very good--very good! MR. POSKET. Thank you--thank you! MR. BULLAMY. [_To MR. POSKET, coughing and laughing and popping a jujube into his mouth._] My dear Posket, I really must congratulate you on that boy of yours--your stepson. A most wonderful lad. So confoundedly advanced too. MR. POSKET. Yes, isn't he? Eh! MR. BULLAMY. [_Confidentially._] While the piano was going on just now, he told me one of the most humorous stories I've ever heard. [_Laughing heartily and panting, then taking another jujube._] Ha, ha, bless me, I don't know when I have taken so many jujubes! MR. POSKET. My dear Bullamy, my entire marriage is the greatest possible success. A little romantic, too. [_Pointing to AGATHA POSKET._] Beautiful woman! MR. BULLAMY. Very, very. I never committed a more stylish, elegant creature. MR. POSKET. Thank you, Bullamy--we met abroad, at Spa, when I was on my holiday. _WYKE enters with tea-tray, which he hands round._ MR. BULLAMY. I shall go there next year. MR. POSKET. She lost her first husband about twelve months ago in India. He was an army contractor. BEATIE. [_To CIS at the piano._] I must go now--there's no excuse for staying any longer. CIS. [_To her disconsolately._] What the deuce shall _I_ do? MR. POSKET. [_Pouring out milk._] Dear me, this milk seems very poor. When he died, she came to England, placed her boy at a school in Brighton, and then moved about quietly from place to place, drinking---- [_Sips tea._ MR. BULLAMY. Drinking? MR. POSKET. The waters--she's a little dyspeptic. [_WYKE goes out._] We encountered each other at the _Tours des Fontaines_--by accident I trod upon her dress---- BEATIE. Good-night, Cis dear. CIS. Oh! MR. POSKET. [_Continuing to MR. BULLAMY._] I apologised. We talked about the weather, we drank out of the same glass, discovered that we both suffered from the same ailment, and the result is complete happiness. [_He bends over AGATHA POSKET gallantly._