XXVII AN UNUSUAL SORT OF BEGGAR . . . . . . 255 XXVIII THE CROWDED HOLIDAY . . . . . . . 273 XXIX LOCKED UP! . . . . . . . . . 307 XXX OUT ON BAIL . . . . . . . . . 319 XXXI MILLION BUCKS UP . . . . . . . . 344 XXXII WALES FOREVER! . . . . . . . . 354 XXXIII MISS MILLION HAS AN IDEA! . . . . . . 372 XXXIV THE FORTUNES OF WAR . . . . . . . 384 CHAPTER I THE YOUNG MAN NEXT DOOR MY story begins with an incident that is bound to happen some time in any household that boasts--or perhaps deplores--a high-spirited girl of twenty-three in it. It begins with "a row" about a young man. My story begins, too, where the first woman's story began--in a garden. It was the back garden of our red-roofed villa in that suburban street, Laburnum Grove, Putney, S.W. Now all those eighty-five neat gardens up and down the leafy road are one exactly like the other, with the same green strip of lawn just not big enough for tennis, the same side borders gay with golden calceolaria, scarlet geranium, blue lobelia, and all the bright easy-to-grow London flowers. All the villas belonging to the gardens seem alike, too, with their green front doors, their white steps, their brightly polished door-knockers and their well-kept curtains. From the look of these typically English, cheerful, middle-class, not-too-well-off little homes you'd know just the sort of people who live in them. The plump, house-keeping mother, the season-ticket father, the tennis-playing sons, the girls in dainty blouses, who put their little newly whitened shoes to dry on the bathroom window-sill, and who call laughing remarks to each other out of the window. "I say, Gladys! don't forget it's the theatre to-night!" "Oh, rather not! See you up at the Tennis Club presently?" "No; I'm meeting Vera to shop and have lunch in Oxford Street." "Dissipated rakes! '_We don't have much money, but we do see life_,' eh?" Yes! From what I see of them, they do get heaps of fun out of their lives, these young people who make up such a large slice of the population of our great London. There's laughter and good-fellowship and enjoyment going on all up and down our road. Except here. No laughter and parties and tennis club appointments at No. 45, where I, Beatrice Lovelace, live with my Aunt Anastasia. No gay times _here_! When we came here six years ago (I was eighteen) Aunt Anastasia was _rigidly_ firm about our having absolutely nothing to do with the people of the neighbourhood.