Although Battersea is far from being a fashionable part of London there are pleasant little flats to be had there, overlooking the park, for those who are indifferent to the advantages of a smart address.

One of these is shared by Beth Appleby and her friend Mary Lambert. Beth Appleby makes an unsatisfying income by casual journalism, relying chiefly on the small but regular payments made by a syndicating agency for a weekly letter on London life. This is widely circulated in provincial papers. Miss Lambert dances fairly well and sings badly. She obtains engagements of uncertain duration in revues and musical comedies. There are times when she envies the steady weekly income paid to her friend by the syndicators. There are other times when Beth Appleby thinks that dancing is a better way of earning a living than writing. Pens may be mightier than swords, but legs are often more profitable than either.

The two girls were together in their flat one sunny morning at the end of May, just such a morning as makes young people long for pleasure and makes work of every kind extremely irksome, and, for most of us—though the thing seems self-contradictory—the want of work more irksome still.

Beth was at her writing-table, her pen in her hand, a sheet of paper in front of her. She had written the words "Lilith lisps" and then come to a dead stop. This was not surprising. Lilith had already lisped four times since breakfast. Beth lacked matter for a fifth and, like Rosalind's orator in a similar case, felt strongly inclined to spit.

Mary lay back in the most comfortable chair in the room with her feet on another. She had a cigarette between her fingers which she put to her lips occasionally but without much satisfaction. She was meditating disconsolately on the failure of the last show in which she had danced, a disaster which brought her face to face with the difficult task of getting another engagement.

"I wonder," said Beth irritably, "if there's anything in the world left for Lilith to lisp about."

"There's me," said Mary. "'Lilith lisps that Miss Lambert, the charming young danseuse who has won the hearts of London playgoers, is thinking of accepting a tempting offer to go to New York.'"

"I'd do that and more for you, Mary, dear," said Beth, "if I thought it would be the slightest use. But it wouldn't. Lilith's delightful lispings aren't read by anybody except the wives and daughters of greengrocers in Muddleborough and such places."

"A provincial engagement would be better than nothing."

"Besides," said Beth, "Lilith can't be always lisping about you. It's only a fortnight ago that I had you 'robed in a novel and daring creation' at a garden party given by Jimmy. He was rather stuffy about it afterwards. He said that if any of his aunts had seen the paragraph they'd have been down on him for not asking them to the party. I rather think he was afraid that if I wrote anything more of the kind he might be forced to give a garden party."

Jimmy—spoken of in this familiar way by both girls—is the Earl of Colavon, of whom James Hinton said that his tastes were sporting and dramatic.

"Let's invent another new frock," said Mary. "Next to having one, which I can't, the most amusing thing would be to imagine what it would be like if I could. I'll give you the details. All you have to do is to say that you saw me in it at a reception in Lambeth Palace, given by the Bishop of London."

"It's the Archbishop of Canterbury who lives at Lambeth."

"All the better. It sounds far grander for poor little me and less likely to be contradicted. An archbishop can't possibly know who wears what at his receptions. And, anyhow, he'll never read anything you write, Beth, darling."

"I'll tell you what I'll do for you if you like," said Beth. "I'll make Lilith lisp that you're one of the patrons of Aunt Agatha's pageant. She's got a bishop, so you really might be asked to a reception in a palace. And she's got Sir Evelyn Dent. What she wants now are a few literary and artistic stars to brighten things up a bit."

"I'll do that all right for her, if she'll give me a decent contract and pay for rehearsals."

"I don't fancy Aunt Agatha can pay anybody for anything."

"Well, I'm not going into it for the love of art; but if you can put my name down as a patron it might be some use. Almost any kind of ad. pays, and it isn't every day I get the chance of appearing in print alongside of a bishop and a Prime Minister. Sir Evelyn Dent is Jimmy's uncle, isn't he? And he used to be Prime Minister."

"Not quite," said Beth, "but as near as doesn't matter."

"What's the thing about? English history, I suppose. If it's Fair Rosamund we might work in a dance. I could do something graceful in a long skirt which wouldn't shock the bishop, holding the cup of poison in my hand. Your aunt could be Queen Eleanor if she liked. I'd do it for ten pounds and exes."

"Nothing doing in that way, I'm afraid," said Beth. "It's about smugglers."

"Well, there's that Nautch Girl dance of mine. It's not bad at all. And if your aunt can't pay I dare say Jimmy could screw a tenner out of that uncle of his. It would be quite worth it to the show. No feeling of stuffiness about that dance. I should think that pirates—you said pirates, didn't you?"

"Smugglers."

"Much the same thing. Smugglers or pirates are sure to be mixed up with nautch girls, whatever they are. Or at all events girls of some kind. I don't mind calling it a geisha dance if they like. I could borrow a kimono."

"'Lilith lisps,'" said Beth, taking her pen again, "'that among the patrons of the Hailey Compton Smuggling Pageant is Miss Mary Lambert, whose Nautch Girl dance has just delighted London. The wide appeal made by this pageant—the most magnificently staged show ever produced in England—will be understood when it is realised that among those interested, besides Miss Mary Lambert, are Sir Evelyn Dent, the Bishop of ...' remind me afterwards to find out what he's bishop of. 'And....' Now did Aunt Agatha mention anyone else? I can't remember. Anyhow, we'll put in Jimmy. He won't mind. 'The Earl of Colavon, whose name stands facile princeps among our sporting peers of the younger generation.' Thank heaven, there's another lisp. That makes five. If I'd three more I'd be through with the beastly things for this week, and I'd take you out on top of a bus to Kew or somewhere to get a breath of fresh air."

Fortune was kind to Beth Appleby. While she was still biting the end of her pen Lord Colavon came into the room. He brought with him an air of breezy cheerfulness, very like the weather outside, and a gaiety natural enough in one who was not compelled to write weekly "lispings" for his daily bread and ran no risk of losing his income through the failure of an apathetic public to appreciate a Nautch Girl dance.

"Jimmy," said Beth, "help me out."

"The precise thing I've come to do," said Jimmy. "New 8-cylinder Pallas Athene, sports model, guaranteed 70 miles an hour on the road, did over 100 at Brooklands, stands panting at the door. Dine at Oxford. Dine at York. Dine anywhere you like. Home by moonlight. Is there a moon? Must be a moon in May. 'The young May moon is beaming, love.' The poet wouldn't have said that if there wasn't a moon in May. Dashed particular about facts, poets have to be."

"Oh, Jimmy," said Mary. "Just wait one minute till we get on our hats. Come, Beth."

But Beth Appleby had a conscience, or that fairly satisfactory substitute for a conscience, a sense of prudence. Lilith's Lispings had to be posted that night, or there would be no cheque at the end of the week. And Lilith had only achieved six poor lisps.

"Can't be done," she said, "simply can't. Unless you can help me out with Lilith, Jimmy."

Lord Colavon's tastes were sporting and dramatic, but he was not altogether ignorant of our current literature. Thanks to an intimacy of some years with Beth Appleby, he knew all about Lilith's lispings and had often suggested valuable ideas. He did not fail now.

"What about the Pallas Athene?" he said. "Absolutely the latest thing. Triumph of British engineering. Revelation of speed possibility of road travel. See company's catalogue, free on application."

"'Lilith lisps,'" Beth wrote rapidly, "'that the dernier cri in motor luxury is the——' what did you call it, Jimmy?"

"Pallas Athene. Sports model."

Beth wrote down Pallas Athene and then went on:

"'The upholstery is of delicately tinted Russia leather, equally suited to the light fabric of a summer frock and the rich glow of winter furs.'"

"Hold on," said Jimmy. "There's no use misleading the good old public. It's an 8-cylinder sports model, not a bus for going out to dinner in at night."

"What I've got to do," said Beth, "is to write something that'll thrill my readers. Lilith doesn't get into motor garages, and isn't read by mechanics. She lisps in the chaste parlours of the ladies of the provincial middle classes. What they like to hear about is the upholstery. They don't care a rap about cylinders."

"Oh, well, say what you jolly well like about the car, but it will be awkward for me if one of my aunts, or good old Uncle Evie, who might almost as well be an aunt, went and bought the car expecting it to be the sort of gentle family pet which purrs when stroked."

"I suppose," said Beth, writing fast, "that you will have no objection to my saying that you were seen getting out of the car outside a club in St. James's?"

"None in the world," said Jimmy. "You can say any mortal thing you like about me, Beth, so long as you get through with that beastly writing of yours and come out for a spin."

"I've got you down already, along with Mary and Sir Evelyn and some bishop or other, as a patron of Aunt Agatha's pageant."

"I say, is that the thing Uncle Evie is so keen on? I'd a letter from him the other day, asking me if I knew of a lugger which could be hired by the week or bought cheap."

"Good," said Beth. "I'll make a paragraph about that. 'Apropos of the Hailey Compton Pageant, Lilith lisps that the harbours of England are being searched for a genuine eighteenth century lugger. Lord Colavon, who, besides being a keen motorist, is a distinguished yachtsman——'"

"But, I say, what's the old pageant about? That's what I want to know, and being a patron I think I've a right to ask."

"Smuggling," said Beth. "But for goodness' sake don't interrupt. If I'm to get these lispings done at all I simply must stick at it."

"I don't believe Uncle Evie is going to smuggle. He's not sportsman enough."

Mary Lambert, fully dressed for the motor run, slipped into the room in time to hear Jimmy's defence of his uncle's character.

"If he won't," she said, "I wish somebody else would. The price of silk stockings is scandalous, and unless something is done about it poor girls like me won't be able to live at all. It seems to me, Jimmy, that it's your plain duty to do a little smuggling in the interests of the profession. Other people may be able to get on without silk. We can't. It's a business necessity."

Jimmy sat silent for a minute or two, meditating on Mary's proposal. Then he suddenly addressed Beth.

"Nearly finished? For if you're not too breathless to listen I've got a scheme to propose."

"Give me one more lisp," said Beth, "and I'm yours for a thousand miles in the Russia leather Pallas Athene, all meals en route provided free."

"What I was just going to suggest," said Jimmy, "is that we should run down and dine with Uncle Evie, just to find out about this smuggling stunt of his."

"I should be terrified out of my life," said Mary. "I'm not accustomed to Cabinet Ministers, or for the matter of that to titled aristocrats, except you, Jimmy, and nobody would ever take you for an earl."

"You needn't be the least bit nervous," said Jimmy. "Uncle Evie is a bit boring at times, but he wouldn't frighten a ten-year-old orphan. We'll send him a wire to say we're coming."

"Jimmy," said Beth, "you're priceless! That's another lisp. Absolutely a topper. 'I had the good fortune to be present a few evenings ago at an informal little al fresco dinner given by Sir Evelyn Dent in his fascinating thirteenth century moated grange——'"

"There's no moat," said Jimmy, "and it's a Manor House."

"What does that matter?" said Beth. "It's old, I suppose. People like your uncle always live in old houses."

"It's old, all right," said Jimmy.

"Then moated grange is the proper thing to call it when writing the Lispings of Lilith, but if you really prefer it I don't mind calling it an historic pile. 'Sir Evelyn, a dignified and gracious——' What's the masculine of 'chÂtelaine,' Jimmy?"

"'ChÂteau,' I should think," said Jimmy, "but don't call poor old Uncle Evie that. He'd hate it."

"'Sir Evelyn,'" said Beth, writing as she spoke, "'who between ourselves——' I mean to say 'entre nous is something of a grand seigneur.'"

"I know I'll be petrified with terror," said Mary. "A grand seigneur in a moated grange."

"'Among the guests,'" Beth went on, "'was the Earl of Colavon, who was wearing the famous diamond studs which have been in the family since Henry VIII gave them to Anne Boleyn, who was, as everybody knows, one of the ancestors of the Dents,'"

"Hang it all, Beth," said Jimmy, "I don't mind your making a fool of me in any ordinary way, but a fellow must draw the line somewhere. Why can't you say that Uncle Evie wore the diamond studs?"

"I'm putting him down for the Garter Ribbon," said Beth, "so you must have the diamond studs. Though I don't mind making them pearl if you'd rather. You simply must give the public what it wants if you go in for literature at all."

"Well, hurry up," said Jimmy. "It's all of 180 miles down to Uncle Evie's moated grange and I shall have to push the sports model along a bit if we're to get there for the al fresco dinner."

"Five minutes more and I've finished," said Beth. "'The conversation after dinner turned on—— Now what do you think, belovedest? Politics? Wrong. Science? Wrong. Guess again. Well, if you won't, let us whisper: silk stockings. But you'd have guessed that, wouldn't you? if I'd mentioned that Miss Mary Lambert was one of the party.'"

"I won't have it," said Mary. "As if I'd dare to talk about silk stockings to a grand seigneur. Tell her not to, Jimmy."

"Not much use my telling Beth anything. Besides, we are going to talk about silk stockings, aren't we? I mean to say, that's the general idea of the party—smuggling and so forth."

"Thank Heaven, I've finished," said Beth. "I'll just run and change my frock, and then we'll see what the Pallas Athene can do along the roads."

"If anybody talks about silk stockings," said Mary when Beth had left the room, "it'll have to be you, Jimmy. I simply daren't to a man like your uncle."

"But that's what we're going to see Uncle Evie about. What I mean to say is this: we want to get all the particulars about this smuggling stunt of his, whether there's any chance of fitting in a little of the real thing. It all depends, you know. But if we could manage to get in a few dozen pairs of silk stockings under cover of the pageant it'd be all to the good for you and Beth, wouldn't it?"

"Jimmy," said Mary, "you're an angel!"

"I don't promise anything. It all depends on how Uncle Evie's working the thing. If he leaves the lugger part of the show in my hands—— Didn't Beth say there was a bishop in it? You can do pretty nearly anything if you're holding hands with a bishop. Nobody ever suspects you. Besides, he might be a sportsman himself—the bishop, I mean. Some are, I'm told. Anyhow, I don't suppose he'd have any objection to a case of champagne. If he didn't care to drink it himself he could give it away to poor parsons in the diocese."