Ten of the applicants—and it is to be feared that they were the ten whose photographs were the most attractive—were given an appointment with Mrs Elsmere Twiss at a West End hotel on a certain day. On the morning of that day Mr Matthews placed himself in the hands of a famous costumier, who had guaranteed to convert him into such an excellent imitation of an old lady that even at close quarters the disguise would not be detected. The costumier spent two hours on effecting a most artistic transformation and then, after submitting himself to the photographer in attendance, Mr Matthew drove off to the hotel. A passer-by who had happened to glance into the cab might have observed a sweet-looking old lady smoking a large cigar. [Illustration: An older person wearing a Victorian-era hat with a train, a black dress with a fur collar, and white gloves, with a lit cigar in ‘her’ mouth. Caption: ‘A sweet-looking old lady smoking a large cigar.’] He now proceeded to interview the selected ten, it being his abominable intention to kiss each applicant as he said good-bye to her. The first applicant to be brought in from the waiting-room was Miss Grace Porter. Everything went well until the moment came for the affectionate good-bye. But then it chanced that Miss Porter dropped her handkerchief. Now Mr Matthews had from the nursery upwards been taught habits of politeness, and his decent upbringing now proved his undoing. Forgetting that he was supposed to be an elderly lady and the girl’s prospective employer, he flew to pick up that handkerchief. And as he stooped his hat and wig fell off. For a few awful moments he remained stooping, waiting for Miss Porter’s scream. But no scream came. She had realised that Mrs Elsmere Twiss wore a wig, but not that she was a man. And the tactful Miss Porter had retired from the room. Mr Matthews was safe, but his nerve was gone. He replaced the hat and wig, and sent a waiter with a message to the remaining applicants. When Mr Matthews had finished his story two other members narrated how they had conspired together to get the game of kiss-in-the-ring played at a rectory garden party and had failed miserably. ‘Now the only member left,’ said the chairman, ‘is Mr Cunliffe, and as he protested against the problem, and will not have competed——’ ‘Pardon me,’ said the sonorous and ecclesiastical voice of the Rev. Septimus Cunliffe. ‘I have not only competed, but I claim to be the winner.’ ‘One moment. This is a shock, and some restorative seems indicated.’ The chairman fetched himself a brandy-and-soda from the side-table and resumed. ‘Now, if the reverend gentleman will continue the account of his exploits——’