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"Good morning," said Chick cheerfully, as he hung up his hat and walked to his writing-table.

His three fellow-clerks and the lady typist were already at their desks, and their eyes had scarcely left the door.

"Good morning," they all said in gruff unison.

There had been a long and serious discussion that morning in the office. Bennett, the head clerk, was admittedly a Socialist, a Communist, and a believer in the theory of violence, yet it was Bennett who had insisted that Chick should be addressed as "my lord."

"Personally," he said, "I regard titles as a ridiculous survival of class privilege, but Chick Beane has always been respectful to me, and I regard him as a comrade and an ornament to the proletariat."

"Bit formal, isn't it?" demurred the ledger-clerk. "I mean to say, we can't very well treat him as an equal if we 'my lord' him."

"What about saying 'sir' to him?" suggested Miss Commers, the typist.

But "sir" was vetoed as impinging upon the privileges of their employer. So that it was agreed that they should studiously avoid calling him anything.

Chick noted the flowers on the desk—they were snowdrops—and stopped to sniff their faint fragrance.

Mr. Leither was also an early arrival, for he had read the tremendous news in the evening newspaper.

"City Clerk Succeeds to Marquisate of Pelborough.

"Successful claimant to an extinct peerage dies, and title goes to a young insurance agent."

He had given (by telegram, the reply to which was prepaid) a somewhat grudging permission for Chick to be present at his uncle's funeral. He had never dreamt that such an amazing romance lay behind the ceremony.

He, too, waited in his office, the door of which was left ajar so that he should know when his lordly subordinate arrived.

Chick sat at his desk, unlocked the drawers, and took out his form-letters. The funeral of his eccentric uncle had not saddened him; it was a far greater tragedy that he should be obliged to dispose of Dr. Beane's domestic staff and place the contents of the house in the hands of a local auctioneer. There had been an unpleasant day of sorting the doctor's personal papers, and Chick began to understand faintly how absorbing an interest this peerage had been to his uncle. He came back to work with a sense of relief. Fortune he had none. The doctor was living on an annuity, and had left something under five hundred pounds.

The cottage, and the land on which it stood—and which Chick refused to sell—might be worth another five hundred pounds, and that was all.

He had hardly taken up his pen before the untidy Mr. Leither walked from his bureau, a cigarette drooping from his lips, his waistcoat speckled grey with ash.

"Morning, Pelborough," he said, almost defiantly.

Chick stared and grinned. He had not grown accustomed to his noble title, and Mr. Leither was the first man who had addressed him as though he were a railway station.

"Good morning, sir," said Chick.

Mr, Leither coughed.

"The sad event was duly carried out?" he asked. "In fact, the late Marquis is—er—interred?"

"The doctor—oh, yes, the Marquis, of course," said Chick hastily. "Yes, sir, that is all over,"

Mr. Leither coughed again.

"Can I see you a moment—er—Pelborough?"

Chick's heart sank.

"Have I made another mistake, sir?" he said. "I was very careful about the work on Saturday."

Mr. Leither regarded him with pain.

"Mistake, my—er—dear Pelborough?" he reproached him. "Of course not! How absurd! Come in."

The insurance agent closed the door behind him.

"Sit down—er—Pelborough. What wage-fees are you getting, my boy?"

"Fees—oh, you mean wages? Two pounds fifteen a week."

"Ridiculous!" murmured Mr. Leither. "Preposterous! Tut, tut. Of course that is absurd for a man of your position, my—er—dear Pelborough."

He paced the room with determined strides.

"I've been giving your position here a great deal of thought lately. Your work is highly specialized, Pelborough, never forget that!"

Chick gasped. Was this the man who, only four days ago, had reminded him that the work he performed could be done, and better done, by a child, and a ragged child at that?

"I've been thinking things over," said Mr. Leither, lighting another cigarette, "and I've come to" this conclusion—this business is growing, but it isn't growing fast enough. We are losing 'lives' that we ought to get. There are scores of members of the aristocracy who can't be got at, Pelborough. Good lives—first-class lives. Now, I'll tell you what, Pelborough. A partnership!"

"A partnership?" said Chick. "Are you taking a partner, Mr. Leither?"

Mr. Leither inclined his head.

"What about my obliterating myself, turning this little business into a company—the Marquis of Pelborough's Insurance Agency, eh?"

Chick scratched his nose thoughtfully.

"I don't see exactly how you could do that, Mr. Leither," he said. "I have no money."

"Money!" said the scornful agent. "Money! I've got the money, my boy. You have the influence. Now, what do you say?"

Chick shook his head.

"I'm not clever enough, Mr. Leither, and I certainly have no influence. It's very kind of you, but I can't see how I could help you."

"Think it over, Pelborough." Mr. Leither screwed himself up to clapping the noble back of the new Marquis. "Think it over, my dear boy, and come and lunch with me at one o'clock."

But Chick had a luncheon engagement which he would not have missed for the world.

"Not your—er—actress friend?" asked Mr. Leither; and when Chick admitted that it was his actress friend, Mr, Leither smiled with meaning.

Gwenda Maynard was an actress and an employed actress, to her joy and relief. If she was no longer a fellow-boarder of Chick's, that was no fault of his obliging landlady, Mrs. Shipmet, who had literally begged her to forget that so sordid a matter as an arrear of rent should come between two people who (in Mrs. Shipmet's own words) "had always been the best of friends, I'm sure—h'm!"

But Gwenda knew better than any, better than the delighted Chick, that Mrs. Shipmet's change of front was due to the fear that she would also lose Chick and the advertisement which the Marquis of Pelborough would bring to her boarding establishment. And, in truth, Chick had already composed, in his mind, the letter, announcing his forthcoming departure from Brockley.

Gwenda was obdurate. She had had the offer of a room in Doughty Street, Bloomsbury. A woman acquaintance of hers had a flat there, and the girl had accepted the offer gratefully.

"I've a wonderful room, Chick," she said enthusiastically after their greeting, "and Maggie Bradshaw has the most gorgeous baby! His name is Samuel, and you'd adore him."

They lunched in style at the Holborn Restaurant, and the meal was an unusually extravagant one for Chick.

"What happened after I left?" asked the girl. "Don't forget that I haven't seen you since Saturday; you were a dear to come all the way to Bloomsbury with me."

"What happened?" said Chick, trying hard to remember. "I don't exactly know, When I got back, they were all waiting up for me, and Mrs. Shipmet was awfully kind, and took me into the senctum and asked me if I would like a glass of wine. That was kind, too, although I don't drink wine. She must have thought I was a bit upset."

"Very probably," said Gwenda dryly, "And what did they call you?"

"What did they call me?" repeated Chick, "Oh, I think they called me 'my lord' or something. It was very embarrassing, because all the people I didn't like were the most friendly. Even Mr. Fred came down and said it was an honour to be hit in the jaw by me, which, of course, is stupid."

He looked at the girl thoughtfully,

"Gwenda, I must leave Mrs, Shipmet. She wants to give me her best bedroom, and I really can't afford it. Couldn't I come to your place?"

The girl's eyes danced with laughter.

"You might come and live with the infant Samuel," she said solemnly. "Margaret talks of taking another boarder."

Chick nearly leapt out of his chair in his excitement.

"That would be fine," he said. "And are you really working, Gwenda?"

She nodded.

"I am playing the part of Lady Verity. Chick," she said suddenly, "Mr. Solburg wants to see you."

Chick looked a little uncomfortable.

"I suppose he thought it was awful nerve on my part to call him up last Saturday and ask him to give you that engagement," he said. "I don't know what made me do it."

"I know," said the girl softly. "It was because you're the kindest boy that ever lived, and I got the engagement, too."

She did not tell him that Miss Moran, who had had the part which had been taken away from her, had been stricken with influenza, and that accounted for Solburg's change of front.

"I want you to promise me something, Chick."

"I'll promise you anything, Mrs.—Gwenda," said Chick. "When can I come to Doughty Street?"

"As soon as you like," she answered. "This is what I want you to promise," she went on. "Don't do anything that Mr. Solburg asks you until you have seen me."

Chick stared at her.

"What could he ask me, Gwenda?"

"I don't know," said the girl, "but you promise."

"Of course I promise," said Chick. "This has been a tremendously exciting day for me. Do you know what happened this morning?"

She shook her head.

"I was offered a partnership!"

"With Mr. Leither?" she said, trying to keep a straight face, for she had seen Mr. Leither, and knew the trials which Chick had undergone at the hands of his employer.

"It's a fact," said Chick. "You wouldn't believe it, would you? I thought I should astonish you. I never thought that Mr. Leither was such a kind soul. He's always been a little strict with me, and only the other day, in his joking way, he told me a little boy could do the work better than I. And yet he offered me a partnership right off, without any expense to myself."

"Wonderful," said the girl. "And did you accept?"

Chick shook his head.

"No," he said. "I didn't think I was up to the job. You see, I don't know very much about this insurance business, and it rather bores me. Under those circumstances it wouldn't have been fair for me to accept Mr. Leither's offer."

"Why do you think he offered it to you?" she asked.

Chick considered,

"I suppose it is because I had come into this title," he said, "and he thought that I couldn't afford to keep it up. There's a tremendous lot of kindness in the world, Gwenda, in people whom you'd never suspect, too. It makes me go all choky when I think about it."

She looked at him long and earnestly.

"You make me go all choky at times," she said quietly. "Now eat your lunch, and afterwards we'll go over to Doughty Street and interview Maggie."

Maggie proved to be a tall, attractive, red-haired girl, who smoked cigarettes all the time and had a grievance against Fate. She was not completely attired when Chick made his appearance, but Chick was seldom embarrassed. Even the unusual sight of a pretty lady in a pink dressing-gown did not so much as surprise him. He had the trick of accepting what he found, which is half the secret of happiness.

"Maggie, this is Mr. Beane," said Gwenda, to Chick's astonishment. He had almost forgotten that his name was ever Beane.

"How are you?" said Maggie carelessly. "Take a chair, Mr. What's—your—name—Mr.—er—"

"This is the gentleman I spoke of, Maggie. Do you think he might have the bed-sitting-room on the next floor?"

The house in which Maggie Bradshaw lived was divided into two maisonnettes, and Maggie had mentioned casually that the people below her—a middle-aged couple—had a room to spare, but could not offer board. Chick would take this room and board with Maggie. Not an ideal compromise, but one which had its advantages.

"If he can stand the society of two old married ladies," said Maggie humorously, "to say nothing of that kid of mine, he can come."

A queer little sound made her turn her head and groan.

"I'll bring him," said Gwenda. She ran out of the room and came back nursing a small red-haired baby, who was chewing as much of his hand as his mouth could accommodate. He jerked his eyes round in the queer way that babies have, first to the window and the fascinations of the bright light, then to Chick, and Chick grinned and held out his arms.

"You like babies, eh?" said Maggie. "Well, that's one satisfaction."

"Like them?" said Chick, holding the infant Samuel scientifically. "Good gracious, yes! Everybody likes babies!"

"Then I'm a freak," said Maggie Bradshaw, "for I loathe them."

Chick nearly dropped the child in his amazement.

"You don't like other babies?" he said incredulously.

"I don't like any of them," said Maggie. She fumbled in a yellow box, produced a cigarette, and puffed a curl of smoke in the air. "I suppose I'm an unnatural mother. Judging by your face, I'm a monster," she smiled. "A baby to you is just a lovely little creature to amuse and pet. To me he is one large piece of iron roped to my ankle."

The baby's soft cheek was against Chick's ear, and suddenly the child chuckled, a cooing little laugh, as though he had understood the woman's speech and was enjoying the humour of it.

"Mrs. Bradshaw is joking," smiled Gwenda, to whom this view was no new one.

She liked the girl. They had played together in the provinces, and Gwenda had been one of the witnesses of Maggie's wedding to a temperamental young actor. The marriage had not been a success. Mr. Bradshaw was touring Australia, and sending very occasional money for the support of his family. They had not understood one another; they both admitted that. They also admitted at their last interview that the marriage had been a mistake, and at the end Mr. Bradshaw had wept and made an impressive exit to Australia. Mrs. Bradshaw might have made as imposing an exit, but for the bit of iron.

"I'm not joking," said Maggie, She took the baby from Chick's arms, smiled in his face, but the infant Samuel was scrutinizing her, his head first on one side and then on the other, with a wholly expressionless face. "You think because I feed Sam and look after him, and dress him as well as I can, and don't beat him or drop him out of the window, that I'm necessarily fascinated, but you're wrong, Gwenda, my love. I've got to play the game with him, but I can see him wearing me out and making an old woman of me."

The infant Samuel emitted a piercing yell, and then drew back his head and stared, as though he expected some startling result.

"Take him, Gwenda; the little beggar is hungry."

It was Chick who took the child. He had been a holder of babies ever since he could remember; the satin softness of their skins, the loveliness of their little wet mouths pressed against his cheek, the touch of their fairy hands, was unadulterated pleasure to him.

"When do you think of moving in?" asked Mrs. Bradshaw, coming back with a feeding-bottle.

"On Saturday," suggested Chick.

The woman nodded.

"Give him that, Gwenda," she said. "Look at the little glutton."

The infant Samuel was straining away from Chick, his little round arms outstretched, his fingers working convulsively.

"I'll show you your room, Mr. Beane."

The room was infinitely better than his room at Brockley, the position much more central—and there were Gwenda and Samuel.

On his way to the Strand he stopped at a telephone booth to ask permission from Mr. Leither to take extra time for his luncheon. That permission was readily, even playfully, given.

"He's a wonderful fellow, is Mr. Leither," said Chick, shaking his head in astonishment. "I think I've been judging him rather harshly, Gwenda." Gwenda did not answer.

Chick had never been at "the back of the stage" before. His interview with Mr. Solburg had taken place at the gentleman's office in the Strand. He was now to find him in his native element—a man of Jove-like power, before whom actors and actresses, many of whom were people of title (in the play), and one at least a sanguinary villain, who stopped at nothing and feared nobody (on the stage), trembled and grew confused.

He was sitting in the deserted stalls, watching three people talk at one another in inaudible tones. Chick would have lingered on the cold stage, lit only by one batten, to watch this rehearsal, but the girl led him by the arm through the pass-door into the stalls.

Mr. Solburg greeted him with no more effusion than on their last meeting.

"Sit down, my lord, will you?" he asked. And then, addressing the stage-fold: "You ought to be farther down stage, Mr. Trevelyn, when you make the speech about the baby, and you, Miss Walters, should be farther to the o.p. side...That's right. Not too far, please; there will be a window there with garden backing."

"Where's the baby?" whispered Chick, a little overawed.

"It is in the property-room, having its nose fixed," said Gwenda in the same tone; and Chick started violently, until he saw her twitching lips.

"Now go on from where Miss Walters comes in," commanded Mr. Solburg.

Miss Walters came in and was greeted by Mr. Trevelyn, but what they said to one another Chick could not hear.

"I wish they'd speak up," he whispered, and Gwenda smiled.

"They're only 'walking through' the parts," she said, "just to get their actions right."

"Never seen a rehearsal before, m'lord?" asked Solburg over his shoulder.

"No, sir," said Chick.

"This isn't a real run through," explained Solburg, half twisting round (they sat behind him). "We are just 'walking' a few of the scenes. Now, Mrs. Maynard, this is where you go on."

Gwenda was no more audible than her fellow-players. She was corrected twice by Mr. Solburg, to Chick's surprise and disgust.

"Cross to left down stage, Mrs. Maynard. No, no, down stage in front of Miss Walters. That's right. You ought to be near the door. Stop! Put a chair there, somebody, to indicate the door."

He took a cigar-case from his pocket and offered it to Chick.

"Don't smoke cigars? You're wise." Solburg was regarding the stage seriously and intently. "How would you like to be an actor, my lord?"

"Me?" said Chick in surprise.

"You," nodded Solburg. "Just a small but important part. I could get the author to write one in. You'd only have a few lines to say, and you wouldn't be on the stage ten minutes."

Chick was laughing softly.

"Do you like the idea?" asked Mr. Solburg, turning abruptly so that his good-humoured face was within a few inches of Chick's. "You'd be near your friend Mrs. Maynard, and the salary would be twenty—no, twenty-five pounds a week for eight performances."

"No," said Chick. "It's awfully kind of you, Mr. Solburg, and I guess the reason which prompts you. But I'm not an actor, and I should be keeping out of employment some person who was."

Solburg frowned.

"No, you wouldn't," he said. "But that's by the way. Will you think it over?"

Chick shook his head.

"I couldn't," he said definitely, and Mr. Solburg smiled.

"I think you're wise," he said. It was his pet tag, and usually he was sincere when he said it. "Only, if you feel like accepting another offer that's bigger, come to me and give me the chance of giving you as much."

"I shan't go on the stage," said Chick, "and I don't suppose anybody else will be interested in me to the extent of offering me so wonderful a salary."

Again Mr. Solburg looked round.

"My dear boy," he said, with a half-smile that made his strongly Hebraic face almost sinister, "they won't offer it for your good—they'll want to exploit you, as I do. That's frank, isn't it? Frankness is my best vice. They'll want you to appear because you're a nine days' wonder, a romance, and because the Marquis of Pelborough would look wonderful in the cast. That's why I wanted you—and because you're a good lad, too, if I may take the liberty, my lord!"

Chick nodded vigorously. He felt behind the offer a generosity and sincerity which deprived him of speech.

"Come into the theatre when you like," said Solburg. "I'll put your name on the door and stage-door. You can go on the stage when you like. Come to dinner with me one night, when I've got this production off my mind, and I'll point out to you every crook and mug who is likely to get at you. And, believe me, Lord Pelborough, they will come after you!"

"Thank you, I will, Mr. Solburg," said Chick gratefully.

"I think you're wise," said Mr. Solburg.

It was nearly four o'clock when Chick reached his office—he was in a panic when he saw the time by the post-office clock. But, bless you, if Chick had not returned until six, he would have earned no more than an indulgent smile. It is true that the ledger-clerk was a little disappointed that the new Marquis had returned from lunch perfectly sober, for he was a patron of the pictures, and was strong for a dissolute nobility.

Before he left that night, Chick informed the chief clerk that he was changing his address.

"Quite right," said that worthy man. "Ritz Hotel, I suppose? Eh—comrade?"

"Not exactly—comrade," said Chick gravely, and went back to Brockley to break the news.

Mrs. Shipmet, the good hostess of Acacia Lodge, was arrayed in her best, for she had had an important day. Hitherto her acquaintance with modern journalism had been restricted. She looked upon newspaper reading as a lazy practice, mostly indulged in by bad servants and out-of-work boarders. If she approved of newspapers at all, it was because they came in handy to line the larder shelves, or were very necessary for kindling the drawing-room fire.

And now the painstaking and reliable character of news collection was revealed to her. All day long she had sat in her "senctum" and had spoken with respectable young men, many of them, to all appearances, gentlemen, and these reporters had made notes in quaint wild scrawls, which Mrs. Shipmet knew at once was shorthand, and had treated her with the respect, and even reverence, which is due to important personages.

She had told all she knew about Chick—his manners, habits, recreations, tastes in literature, art and science. He was "more like a son" than a lodger, she told them all, and his accession to the title "had not altogether surprised her." She left the impression that that was the good fortune which was very likely to overtake anybody who was "more like a son" to her.

She saw Chick from afar off, and was at the door to meet him.

"Good evening, my lord," She would have curtsied, but wasn't quite sure how it was done in these days. "And did you enjoy your visit?" she asked tactlessly,

"I seldom enjoy funerals," said Chick, and the lady became appropriately sad.

"We've all got to come to it," she said, shaking her head mournfully.

"So I've noticed," said Chick, with a smile. "I want to see you, Mrs. Shipmet."

Mrs. Shipmet had her suspicions, which were soon to be confirmed. She led the way a little majestically to the "senctum."

"I'm going to other lodgings nearer my office," said Chick. "I have been thinking of this move for some time."

"Indeed?" said Mrs. Shipmet, implying her doubt. "I hope Mrs. Maynard hasn't persuaded you against your better judgment, Mr.—I mean, my lord?" Chick smiled.

"I don't see how I could be persuaded against my better judgment, Mrs. Shipmet," he said. "And speaking of Mrs. Maynard, she has sent you this cheque."

He laid an envelope on the table. Mrs. Shipmet sniffed at it. Though she had never seen a dishonoured cheque in her life, she always regarded payment by this instrument as "unsatisfactory." She looked her dissatisfaction.

"I can't expect your lordship to stay on in my humble dwelling," she said, with an asperity of tone which discredited her disparaging reference, "the more so as what I might term the chief attraction has departed and is no more seen."

It was a peculiarity of Mrs. Shipmet that when she was ruffled, her language took on a Biblical character. Chick's blue eyes fixed and held her.

"I was sorry Mrs. Maynard had gone," he said, "and if she had stayed, I don't think I should have thought of leaving. I hope you aren't cross, Mrs. Shipmet?"

She said something about having done her best for him; he had always had the best of everything, and it seemed rather hard that he should be dragged away.

"When are you thinking of leaving, sir—my lord?" she asked.

"Now," said Chick laconically.

He had not intended leaving for a week. Mrs. Shipmet wept, and Chick packed.

His landlady so far recovered, on his departure, as to ask his approval of a new business card she had drafted, at the head of which was to appear (in gold letters) the words:

"Under the distinguished patronage of and highly recommended by The Most Honourable the Marquis of Pelborough, K.G."

"What is K.G.?" asked Chick curiously.

"Knight of the Garter," said the landlady.

"But I'm not!" protested Chick. "And what's all this stuff about 'Most Honourable'? Really, Mrs. Shipmet, I think you're very kind, but that Most Honourable makes me very uncomfortable. I've always tried to be honourable, but it is rather cheap, isn't it, boasting?"

It was explained to him that 'Most Honourable' was the customary prefix to his title, just as "Honourable" and "Right Honourable" go before the names of certain politicians, statesmen, and peers of lower rank. He approved the testimonial, striking out only the dignity to which he had not attained.

His fellow-guests brought him their autograph books, and he signed "Chick Pelborough" until it was pointed out to him that members of the nobility only signed their title-names, whereupon he flourished "Pelborough" under certain moral maxims which were favourites of his.

It was late when his taxi reached Doughty Street, and he began to wonder if the household was in bed. After much ringing, Maggie appeared, still in her dressing-gown.

"Hullo!" she said in surprise. "I thought you weren't coming for a week. Have they chucked you out?"

She showed the way up to her sitting-room.

"Gwenda isn't back from the theatre yet," she said. "They are having their first dress rehearsal to-night." She looked at Chick dubiously. "I'd better go and see the people downstairs about your room," she said. "You like Sam, don't you?" she asked suddenly.

"I'm very fond of little babies," admitted Chick, and she looked at him strangely.

Chick found it difficult to analyse his feelings in regard to Maggie Bradshaw. She was rather over-powering, a tall, strongly-built girl, with a big mop of red hair, about which he had spoken enthusiastically to Gwenda, without, however, evoking any very hearty response. She was good-looking in a heavy way. Her features were too bold. Too bold—that was the quality in her which checked his liking.

"Yes," she said thoughtfully, "you're a kind sort of kid—maybe...yes..."

She did not attempt to fill up the blanks in her speech, but went downstairs to Chick's new landlord.

She came back in ten minutes and handed him a key.

"Your room is facing the entrance," she said. "They've put your trunk inside, so you can't mistake your little cell. Do you want to see your new home? They won't be in bed for hours yet, and Mr. Worthing said he'd wait up for you."

She told him that his new landlord was a lawyer's clerk, and that his wife was inclined towards spiritualism.

"Otherwise, they're ideal people," she said, and went on to talk about Gwenda. Here she was fascinating to Chick. She was the first person he had ever met who knew his friend or was anxious to talk about her. Maggie knew surprisingly little of Gwenda's early life, as it proved.

"She's never mentioned her husband to me," said Maggie, "and, Heaven knows, I've spoken enough about my little bit of trouble. Sometimes I think Mr. Gwenda Maynard must be in gaol, she's so cheery."

Gwenda and she had met when they were both playing in the same touring show.

"That was when I met my doom," said Maggie grimly. "You think I'm heartless, Mr. Beane, and I suppose I am, but do you know what Samuel means? It means that I've had to turn down the best offer that I've ever had—to play my old part in Princess Zelia. It opens in New York next month, and there's a contract waiting for me to sign and steamer reservation already made. I've got to go and see Brancsome to-morrow and tell him that I'm engaged by Samuel and Co. to play the heavy mother in the great boarding-house drama 'Chained by the Leg.'" She laughed and threw her cigarette into the fire, and it was at that moment that Gwenda's key turned in the lock.

"Chick!" she said in amazement. "Whatever are you doing here?"

"He has been driven from home," said Maggie, looking at the clock, "and this is where Samuel gets his night-cap."

Chick helped the girl off with her coat and gave a resume of the events of the evening.

"So you told her you left because I'd gone, did you?" said Gwenda. "How lovely you are, Chick! Yes, it has been a trying night. Solburg made us do one scene over and over again until I could have screamed."

She drew a long sigh.

"Well, you're here, anyway. Has Maggie been discussing the duties and responsibilities of motherhood?"

"I'm sorry for Mrs. Bradshaw," said Chick.

"Be professional and call her Maggie," smiled Gwenda. "But you're sorry for everybody, Chick."

"I'm sorry for Samuel, of course," he confessed, "but I sort of see her point of view." He wrinkled his forehead in thought. "I wish one could buy babies," he said, "the same as you can buy cats and canaries."

"Don't make Maggie an offer, or she'll give him to you," warned Gwenda, bubbling with laughter. "Chick, you ought to run a creche! And talking of infants reminds me that Solburg has had a youthful reporter with him all the evening. Solburg is a good sort, and I think he was splendid to you this afternoon; but he has queer ideas about things, and he'll do almost anything for an advertisement. He always runs some stunt for the first night of a show."

"When is your first night?" asked Chick.

She shook her head.

"I shan't tell you, and I don't want you to know, so please don't read the newspapers for a day or two. I'd be scared to death if you were in front."

Mr. Solburg's passion for publicity was revealed the next morning. Chick, who had passed a restless night, owing to the strangeness of his surroundings, got up early and rang the bell of the upper maisonette before half-past eight.

To his surprise, Maggie was up and dressed.

"Rather a shock to see me without my dressing-gown, eh?" she laughed. "Come along up and have breakfast. Gwenda has something to show you."

The something was a newspaper wherein was announced that "for one night only the Marquis of Pelborough would make his first appearance on any stage" in the Society drama Tangled Lives.

"The Marquis is expected to be one of the guests assembled in the great ballroom scene."

Gwenda held the paper whilst he read the lines aloud.

"That is Solburg," she said viciously. "I knew he was planning something of the sort."

"But I'm not going!" said the indignant Chick. "Of course I shan't appear."

"Of course you won't," said Gwenda scornfully. "But everybody in the audience will be pointing out one or the other supers on the stage and saying 'There's the Marquis,' and that is all Solburg wants. The next day he will say that, owing to an indisposition, you couldn't appear. He'll have had his advertisement, and that is all that will matter. It is too bad."

How "bad" it was, Chick discovered when he turned up at Leither's. Although the hour was early, the office was besieged by reporters. Had Chick waited and seen them, his denial would have been printed. Instead, a warning—which was not intended as a warning—delivered by the ledger-clerk, who was waiting on the mat, sent him hurriedly to the nearest telephone station, there to call up Mr. Leither and implore him to get rid of the Press-men. Which Mr. Leither did, in his blandest manner, by admitting the truth of the paragraph. For Mr. Leither represented a category which was in direct opposition to the Shipmet school, and believed implicitly in the printed word.

"I'm sorry, my boy—my dear Pelborough," he said, when Chick had stolen furtively into the office, the first furtive act of his life. "Seemed true enough. Why shouldn't you go on the stage, my dear boy? It is a very respectable profession. I have had several good 'lives' from the stage. I negotiated one policy for ten thousand pounds."

"Mr. Solburg's won't be a good life, if I see him this morning," said Chick, with some heat.

"He never was a good life, my dear Pelborough," said Mr. Leither gravely.

Chick's position in the office was now an alarming one. As an insignificant dispatcher of "follow-up" letters and guardian of the day- book, he had found work which was well within his grasp, and did not make any very severe demands upon his abilities. But the day-book had been handed over to the ledger-clerk, and the addressing of envelopes had been taken in hand by the typist. There was apparently no work for Chick to do, except to sit still whilst Mr. Leither patted him from time to time, or respond when addressed as "my dear Pelborough." Many more people came to call upon the insurance agent than had ever called before. They spoke to Mr. Leither, but they looked at Chick. This did not bother the new peer. What did worry him was that when he discovered something useful to do, the thing he was doing was taken from his hands by his colleagues.

It was "Excuse me, I'll fill that ink-pot," or "Pardon me, let me change that blotting-paper," until Chick in despair was driven to drawing figures on his blotting-pad. Even then the office stood round and admired audibly.

He dined that night with Maggie alone. She was very serious, and he thought she had been weeping. It must have been her interview with Brancsome, the agent, and the refusal of the tempting contract. He remembered that and sympathized with her.

"Gwenda won't be home to dinner, of course," she said, and Chick wondered why she said "of course." Perhaps the rehearsals would be longer and more tedious today. He had intended, in spite of her admonition, discovering when the new play was to be produced, but the matter had slipped from his mind.

"You think I'm an awful creature, don't you?" asked Maggie for the third time during the meal.

"I never think people are really awful," said Chick. "When I was learning to box, the first thing I was taught was to have a very high opinion of the people I had to meet—and they were queer fellows, too. If I don't think badly of them, why should I think badly of you? It is a pity you don't love Samuel."

"Have some more potatoes," said Maggie almost roughly.

After the meal was finished and cleared away, Maggie came back to the little dining-room, where Chick had settled himself to read, and to his astonishment she was dressed for going out.

"Do you mind listening for baby? I shall be gone for an hour," she asked. "I don't suppose he'll wake until eleven, so don't go in to him, please."

Chick smiled.

"I'll listen with both ears," he said.

She went to the door, hesitated, and came back; then, before Chick could realize what she was doing, she stooped and kissed him.

"You're a good boy," she said, and was gone before he could find speech.

"Gosh!" said Chick at last, for nobody more attractive than a maiden aunt had ever kissed him.

He read his book—it was Prescott's Peru—stopping now and again to tiptoe to the door of Maggie's room (he afterwards discovered that he had really been listening at the kitchen door) and to creep back to his chair. It was nearly ten o'clock when he realized that Maggie had been gone a long time. And with that realization came a faint and fretful howl. He jumped up, located the sound, and went into the right room, to discover Samuel blinking strangely and making queer noises.

"What is the matter, old top?" asked Chick, picking him up in his arms. But Samuel continued to behave strangely. And then, looking round for a bottle, Chick saw the letter propped up against one of the ornaments on the mantelshelf. He carried the baby nearer and read:

"I am going to leave Samuel. Look after him. I must earn money—this flat has put me hopelessly in debt. Look after Samuel, please. I will send money. I shall not return for six months. Please look after Samuel; it breaks my heart to leave him. There is," (should be 'are,' thought Chick) "twenty pounds on my dressing-table. The furniture can be sold to pay the tradesmen. Look after Samuel. Maggie."

"My sacred aunt!" breathed Chick, and then his attention was violently jerked to Samuel. The little man was red in the face, and Chick laid him face downwards across his knees and rubbed his back. But Samuel was not appeased. A thin hair-raising shriek advertised his discomfort, and Chick snatched him up again. What should he do? He was certain Samuel was ill, and he could not go for a doctor. He found a shawl and wrapped Samuel tight. His landlady was out; Chick must take the child himself to discover a doctor—no simple matter in a strange neighbourhood.

Fortune was with him, for he picked up an empty taxi almost at the door. Under the influence of the taxi's jolting progress, Samuel's shrieks died to a whimper. Though the night was cold, and Chick had neither greatcoat nor hat, he was moist with fear.

A policeman directed him to a doctor's house, and suggested a hospital. The doctor was out, and Chick grew moister. Gwenda! She would understand. He directed the taxi to the Strand.

He got out of the cab at the stage door of the Strand-Broadway, and nobody stopped him as he went cautiously down the dark stairs to the door which he knew led to the stage. And now, dodging the heavy sets, he came to the wings, and Samuel howled piteously.

Thank goodness, there was Gwenda! The rehearsal was in full swing, all the lights were blazing, and she occupied the stage alone. What was more, she was looking in his direction, made up, too, with painted face and blackened eyebrows. He tried to attract her attention, and apparently succeeded, for she stretched out her arms, and her intense vibrant voice called:

"Give me the child! Give me the child!"

Chick could not know that she was appealing to the stage soldiers who had taken her stage baby.

As the elegant Mr. Trevelyn, sneering heavily, came through the canvas door to mock her, Chick bolted from the wings. Samuel had got his head clear of the shawl and was looking wide-eyed at the bright lights.

"Maggie's gone!" said Chick hoarsely, "and Samuel's swallowed something!"

He heard the gasp from a thousand throats, and turned his head to the footlights. Beyond them was a sea of pink faces and white shirt-fronts. It was the first night of Tangled Lives, and he had made his first appearance before an audience.

"Moses!" said Chick, as the curtain dropped.