"My dear boy," faltered Sir Simon, "is that--is' that--ahem!--Creme-de-Menthe you gave me exceptionally strong by any chance?" "No, same as it always is, Dad; why?" "Then I'm not mistaken, Lal's eyes have gone a _bright_ green, the same colour as the liqueur in that bottle. Green," shouted Sir Simon, "and they are blazing like fireworks. Look! look at them." The Writer rushed across the room to the window. There could be no doubt about it that the calm eyes of the Pleasant-Faced Lion, which were wont to gaze haughtily upon the more commonplace things around him in Trafalgar Square, had suddenly changed to the colour of living emeralds, and were terrible to behold. "Great Scott!" muttered the astonished Writer, "I have never seen him look like that. He's angry about something." "He's more than angry--he's furious," suggested the Lord Mayor nervously. "What on earth can be the reason of it? Why, yes, I see. Why, how dare she!" spluttered Sir Simon. "There's a woman dancing, positively waltzing round the Square with his wreath of water-lilies I put there for him! I'll stop her, she must bring it back at once." Without another word, Sir Simon rushed for the door and downstairs with the most surprising speed, followed closely by the Writer, who considered his old friend ought not to be deserted upon such a mission. "Ho! hi! stop thief," puffed the Lord Mayor, as he toiled three parts round Trafalgar Square after the corybantic lady, who was dancing on ahead with the huge wreath held with both arms, swaying over her, as she danced a sort of bacchanal in front of the enraged Sir Simon. "Hi!" panted the Lord Mayor, as after frantic efforts he came alongside. "Woman, bring that wreath back at once; how dare you take it away!" "Oh, go on, ole dear," retorted the lady good-humouredly; "ain't it making me much 'appier than an old lion? Why, bless you, it put me in mind of the days when I used to play Alice in Pantomimes. Lead, I used to play, once, yes, s'welp me if I wasn't. What 'arm am I a-doing? Oh, look 'ere, if you're going to get snuffy, 'ere, take your ole wreath. I'm blowed if you don't look as if you come out of a Pantomime yourself, in them red robes! 'Ave yer been playing in a Pantomime?" "Certainly not," replied Sir Simon, somewhat stiffly. "Why, now I sees the light on your face, I knows you quite well; 'ow do yer do, ole sport? I'm Alice; don't you remember little Alice in the Pantomime of Dick Whittington ten years ago at Slocum Theatre Royal? Why, you gave me a bouquet, and stood me two glasses of port." The Lord Mayor groaned. "Little Alice," he queried vaguely; "let me see, little Alice?" "Yes," averred the lady, who must have weighed fully eighteen stone, "shake hands, old pal." The Lord Mayor felt thoroughly uncomfortable, more particularly as the Writer joined him at that moment. "Ahem! an old Pantomime friend," explained Sir Simon.