bursting in, with a proud "Isn't it pretty, _ton petit chez-toi!_" What could he do but smile, and assure her that no soldier home from the wars could have a more beautifully regulated home? "And you have looked enough at the street?" Andrew shut the window. Chapter XIII Through one of the little ironies of fate, my mission at the Peace Conference ended a day or two after Andrew's arrival in Paris, so that when he called at my hotel I had already returned to London. A brief note from him a day or two later informed me of his visit and his great regret at missing me. Of his plans he said nothing. He gave as his address "c/o Cox's Bank." You will remark that this was late April, and I did not receive his famous manuscript till June. Of his private history I knew nothing, save his beginnings in the Cirque Rocambeau and his identity with a professional mountebank known as Petit Patou. Soon afterwards I spent a week-end with the Verity-Stewarts. Before I could have a private word with Lady Auriol, whom I found as my fellow-guest, Evadne, as soon as she had finished an impatient though not unsubstantial tea, hurried me out into the garden. There were two litters of Sealyhams. Lady Verity-Stewart protested mildly. "Uncle Anthony doesn't want to see puppies." "It's the only thing he's interested in and the only thing he knows anything about," cried Evadne. "And he's the only one that's able to pick out the duds. Come on." So I went. Crossing the lawn, she took my arm. "We're all as sick as dogs," she remarked confidentially. "Indeed? Why?" "We asked----" Note the modern child. Not "Papa" or "Mamma," as a well-conducted little girl of the Victorian epoch would have said, but "we," _ego et parentes_--"we asked," replied Evadne, "General Lackaday down. And crossing our letter came one from Paris telling us he had left England for good. Isn't it rotten?" "The General's a very good fellow," said I, "but I didn't know he was a flame of yours." "Oh, you stupid!" cried Evadne, with a protesting tug at my arm "It's nothing to do with me. It s Aunt Auriol." "Oh?" said I. She shook her fair bobbed head. "As if you didn't know!" "I'm not so senile," said I, "as not to grasp your insinuation, my dear. But I fail to see what business it is of ours." "It's a family affair--oh, I forgot, you're not real family--only adopted." I felt humiliated. "Anyhow you're as near as doesn't matter." I brightened up again. "I've heard 'em talking it over--when they thought I wasn't listening. Father and mother and Charles. They're all potty over General Lackaday. And so's Aunt Auriol. I told you they had clicked ages ago." "Clicked?" "Yes. Don't you know English?" "To my sorrow, I do. They clicked. And father and mother and Charles and Aunt Auriol are all potty." "And so am I," she declared, "for he's a dear. And they all say it's time for Aunt Auriol to settle down. So they wanted to get him here and fix him. Charles says he's a shy bird----"