can’t understand you. You’re like nothing on earth. What have you done with that love-letter of yours?”

   “Oh, come,” he said, “I’ve had no love letter.”

   “You silly liar; I mean the letter from your Lady Tyburn. Have you been kissing it?”

   “Really, Mabel, this is absurd. I might as well ask you if you have been kissing the Mammoth Circus.”

   “I’m going to bed,” said Mabel abruptly. “I’m

   absolutely fed up with you. I’m sick to death of you. I hate you. And I despise you.”

   She went out and slammed the door violently. Four more vases went over, and three pictures fell.

   Luke went over to the open window and looked out into the cool night. At the house opposite a girl was singing very beautifully “The End of a Perfect Day.”

   As he sat in his office on the following Thursday morning, the whistle of the speaking-tube sounded shrilly and interrupted him in the act of composition. He went angrily to the tube.

   “What do you want to interrupt me for,” he called, “when you know I’m busy? What the devil do you want, anyway?”

   “I want you, Lukie,” said a gentle voice in reply.

   “Come up at once,” he said. “Awfully sorry. Frightfully glad you’ve come. If there’s a chance of making a mistake within a hundred miles of me, I seldom miss it.”

   Lady Tyburn came radiantly into the room, drawing off her gloves.

   “Nasty shock for you, isn’t it?” she said. She held out both hands to him. “Will you ... will you help yourself?”

   “Thanks,” he said, as he clasped them warmly. “I will have some of each.”

   After a minute or two she withdrew her hands and sat down.

   “Has that dirty dog given you a partnership yet?” she asked.

   “Diggle? Not yet. I ask him from time to time. He always seems too busy to talk about it at any length. It’s wonderful to see you here, Jona.”

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