“I don't think so at all,” replied Miss Lindon in a most disconcertingly matter-of-fact tone. “The only thing is that since poor papa died I've had so little to do with gentlemen, and have forgotten their ways. You see, dear, you have put me quite in a flutter. How do I know, for instance, what you would like to have for breakfast? Your dear grandpapa used to have only one egg boiled for two minutes--he was most particular--and a piece of dry toast; whereas I well remember Mrs. Brownlow telling me that her husband used to eat a hearty meal of porridge and eggs and bacon, with an underdone beefsteak to follow. So you see, dear, I have no rule which I could follow; you would have to tell me.” “That's quite a detail,” said John, rather touched by her unselfish, if tangential, dealing with the proposal. “The main point is,” said he, moving a step or two forward, “would you care to come and play propriety for me and this daughter of misery?” “Do you really want me to?” “Naturally, since I 've asked you.” She rose and came up to him. “My dear boy,” she said with wet eyes, “I know I'm not a clever woman, and often when clever people like you talk, I don't in the least understand what they 're talking about; but I did love your dear mother with all my heart, and I would do anything in the wide world for her son.” John took her hand and looked down into her foolish, kind face, which wore for the moment the dignity of love. “I'm afraid it will mean an uprooting of all your habits,” said he, in a softened voice. She smiled. “I can bring them with me,” she said cheerfully. “You won't mind Dandy, will you? He'll soon get used to you. And as for Dickie,” she added, with a touch of wistfulness, “I 'm sure I can find a nice home for him.” John put his arm round her shoulder and gave her the kiss of a shy bear. “My good soul,” he cried, “bring fifty million Dickies if you like.” He laughed. “There's nothing like the song of birds for the humanizing of the cockney child.” He looked around and beheld the little, gimcrack room with a new vision. After all, it was as much an expression of her individuality, and as genuine in the eyes of the high gods, as Herold's exquisitely furnished abode was of Herold's, or the untidy jumble of the room in Fenton Square was of his own. And all she had to live upon was a hundred and fifty pounds a year, and no artistic instincts or antecedents whatsoever. “I feel a brute in asking you to give up this little place now that you've made it so pretty,” he said. Her face brightened at the praise. “It is pretty, is n't it?” Then she sighed as her eyes rested fondly on her possessions. “I suppose it would be too tiny for us all to live here.” “I'm afraid it would,” said John. “Besides, we must live in London, on account of my work.” “In London?”