“Full and square, Hugo, it’s with you. The cheek of that girl! Shall I ring her up and....” “For God’s sake, don’t! But you’re a good fellow, George.... I say, if she refuses me again I don’t know what I’ll do.” “Have a drink, old man. Bronx, sherry, or Martini?” “No more, thanks.” “Well, best of luck, old man!” “Thank you, George. Good-bye.” “See you this evening?” “Look here, old man, I don’t want to be dramatic and all that, but you may never see me again.” And Hugo was stone-cold serious. He was probably the most serious man in England at that moment. “Good-bye, old man. Thanks so much.” “Just a moment.” And George Tarlyon went to the writing-table, rapidly wrote a short note, and put the envelope into Hugo’s hand. “Give that to Shirley,” said he. But Hugo looked suspicious. “It’s about the theatre to-night,” explained Tarlyon. “I’m taking her to _Loyalties_, to improve her mind.” “Ah,” said Hugo. “_Loyalties!_ Ah! Jew play. Very improving.” Hugo thought weightily. “Look here,” said Hugo, “you know about these things--you were born to be a co-respondent, George. Got any tips to give a chap?” “There’s only one, old Hugo--take ’em young and treat ’em rough. Hairy, primitive man business, you know. ‘Come here, woman, and I’ll learn you’ stuff. But it works better with some than with others, and it’s rather risky. You might try giving her a thick ear, though--only in fun, of course. Cat playing with mouse _motif_. Tender brutality’s your line, Hugo. Many a good woman’s been won by a little tender brutality tastefully applied. Just put it to her gently that you’ll give her a thick ear unless she accepts you. You can always lead the conversation to ears, somehow.... Well, good-bye. Luck, Hugo. Hey, don’t forget your hat!” III Miss Shirley St. George lived with her aunt in Audley Square, Tarlyon saying that he was no fit person for a young girl to live with, and the aunt agreeing. They adored each other, George and Shirley. Towards Audley Square walked Major Cypress, very thoughtfully. Piccadilly had to be crossed, from the new Wolsely building to Mr. Solomon’s, the florist. Piccadilly was crossed, miraculously, for the traffic was thick, though genial. A newsboy yelled, “Execution of Erskine Childers” into his ear. “Boy,” said Major Cypress, “you must not do that. You must not gloat on death like that, and before perfect strangers, too. And, besides, though you may not have shared Mr. Childers’s political opinions, you must admit that he did not die meanly. Here’s a shilling for you, and don’t let me hear you talking so much about executions in future.” Major Cypress then walked away a pace or two, and stood before the flower-laden windows of Mr. Solomon. The boy watched him. “Balmy,” said the boy. “Mysterious disappearance of Child!” yelled the boy. “Damn it,” thought Major Cypress. “I am in love. Oh, damn it!”