Lady Knob-Kerrick's nomination of the Rev. Andrew MacFie to the vacant pastorate at the Alton Road Chapel was her way of showing that an amnesty had been arranged between them, and Mr. MacFie had accepted it with the nearest approach to pleasure that he ever permitted himself. Miss MacFie, his sister and housekeeper, had sniffed; but it was always difficult to discriminate between Miss MacFie's physical and mental sniffs. During the winter she seemed to suffer from a perpetual cold in the head. It sometimes attacked her in the spring and autumn, so that only during the months of June, July and August could one say with any degree of certainty that Miss MacFie's sniffs meant indignation and not an inflamed membrane.

In commemoration of his long ministry at the Alton Road Chapel, the Rev. Mr. Sopley was to receive an illuminated address, a purse of fifty pounds and a silver-mounted hot-water bottle. For reasons of economy the presentation was to be made on the same occasion as the conversazione inaugurating the pastorate of Mr. MacFie. This conversazione had been delayed for some months, as Miss MacFie had been forced to remain behind at Barton Bridge in order to recover from a particularly severe chill, and also to arrange for the letting of the house.

In the meantime Mr. MacFie had taken lodgings in Fulham, thus freeing Mr. Sopley, whose health for some time past had not been good. It had been arranged, however, that the retiring shepherd should be present at the celebration in order to receive the address, the purse and the silver-mounted hot-water bottle.

Lady Knob-Kerrick had consented herself to make the presentation, and a glee-party had been arranged for to entertain the guests. It had first been suggested that the services should be engaged of a man who produced rabbits out of top-hats, and omelettes from ladies' shoes; but it had been decided that such things were too secular for the occasion.

Lady Knob-Kerrick had insisted that the words of the glees should first be submitted to her, and a lengthy correspondence had taken place between her and the leader of the glee-party. The first list had been vetoed in its entirety. One item, entitled "Oh! Hush Thee My Baby," was considered by Lady Knob-Kerrick as not quite nice; it might make the young girls feel self-conscious. Another one of a slightly humorous nature referred to a man's "bleeding nose." Lady Knob-Kerrick had written to the leader of the glee-party in uncompromising terms upon the indelicacy of submitting to her so coarse a composition. After a brisk interchange of letters, a programme was eventually decided upon.

The conversazione was held in the Chapel school-room. A considerable portion of Mr. Hearty's drawing-room furniture had been requisitioned in order to give to the place an appearance of "homeiness" and comfort. Mr. Hearty's clock and lustres were upon the mantelpiece, and Mr. Hearty's pink candles were in the lustres. Chains of coloured paper, to Mr. Hearty the extreme evidences of festivity, stretched from the corners of the room to the central gas bracket on which had been placed opaque pink globes.

Nothing, however, could mitigate the hardness of the scriptural texts in oak Oxford frames that garnished the walls. "Prepare to Meet Thy God," even when in gold letters entwined with apple-blossom, seemed scarcely the greeting for those who had been invited to revel. "The Wages of Sin is Death," with violets coquetting in and out the letters, is sound theology; but not a convincing invitation to merry-making. "And So Shall Ye All Likewise Perish," with primroses that seemed to have paled through long association with so terrible a menace, threw out its uncompromising warning from immediately above the refreshment-table. On the table itself was everything that a little money could buy, from fish-paste sandwiches to home-made three-cornered tarts, with raspberry-jam baked hard peeping out at the joins, as if to advertise that there was no deception.

Millie Hearty had striven to mitigate the uncompromising gloom of the texts by placing evergreens above the frames; but with no very pronounced success.

Mr. Hearty had supplied the fruit and Mr. Black the groceries at "cost-price." That is to say, Mr. Hearty had taken off a halfpenny a pound from his tenpenny apples, and Mr. Black three farthings a bottle from his one and ninepenny lemon-squash.

On the night of the conversazione, Mr. Hearty and Mrs. Bindle arrived early in order to put finishing touches to everything. Mrs. Bindle was wearing a new dress of puce-coloured merino, and Mr. Hearty had donned a white tie in honour of the occasion. His trousers still concertinaed mournfully down his legs until they despairedly met his large and shapeless boots.

Millie Hearty was also an early arrival. In her white frock she looked strangely out of place associated with her father and aunt.

Mr. Hearty fidgeted about from place to place in a state of acute nervousness. His eyes, roving round in search of some defect in the arrangements, fixed themselves upon the gas. Fetching a chair he mounted it and lowered in turn each burner, then, replacing the chair against the wall, he stepped some distance back to see the effect. The result was that he once more mounted the chair and readjusted the flames to the same height as before.

Mrs. Bindle also moved about, but always with a set purpose, putting finishing touches to everything. Alice, the Heartys' maid, seemed to be engaged in a game of in and out, banging the door at each entry and exit. In spite of the frequency with which this was done, it caused Mr. Hearty each time to look round expectantly.

"Is Joseph coming?" he enquired of Mrs. Bindle.

"Yes," she replied, "but I've warned him." There was a grimness in her voice that carried conviction to Mr. Hearty.

"Thank you, Elizabeth, thank you. I was very upset the other night, very." He suddenly rushed away to the harmonium, where one of the candles was burning smokily.

"Mr. Gupperduck can't come," said Mrs. Bindle as she rearranged the fish-paste sandwiches. "He's got a meeting at Hoxton."

Mr. Hearty made some murmur of response as he dashed across the room to adjust three chairs that lacked symmetry.

"I wish they'd come, Alf," wheezed Mrs. Hearty, hitting the front of a bright green bodice. Sartorially Mrs. Hearty always ran to brilliancy.

"I hope Mr. MacFie will not be late," said Mr. Hearty in a tone of gloomy foreboding.

Mr. MacFie's arrival at that moment, accompanied by Miss MacFie, put an end to this anxiety. Miss MacFie was a tall, flat-chested, angular woman of about forty, with high cheek-bones and almost white eyebrows and eyelashes. She greeted Mr. Hearty and the others without emotion. Mr. MacFie had eyes for no one but Millie.

The next arrival was the Rev. Mr. Sopley, "all woe and whiskers," as Bindle had once described him. Mournfully he shook hands with all and, seating himself on the first available chair, cast his eyes up towards the ceiling, his habitual attitude.

Alice sidled up to Mrs. Bindle and, in a whisper audible to all, enquired:

"Am I to call out the names, mum?"

"Certainly, Alice," replied Mrs. Bindle. "As each guest arrives you will announce the names clearly." Then turning to Mr. Hearty she said, "I think that you and Mr. MacFie ought to receive the guests at the door."

"Certainly, Elizabeth, certainly," said Mr. Hearty. There was unaccustomed decision in his voice. He was glad of something definite to do. Striding over to Mr. MacFie, he whispered to him and practically dragged him away from Millie. The two of them took up their positions near the door, where they stood staring at each other as if wondering what was to happen next.

Mrs. Hearty from time to time beat her chest.

"It's me breath," she confided to Mr. Sopley, then subsided into wheezing.

"Ha!" Mr. Sopley changed the angle of his gaze. Whenever spoken to he invariably opened his mouth with a jerk, as if he had been suddenly brought back from another world by someone hitting him in the wind. As often as not he re-closed his mouth without further sound. It was obvious to the most casual observer that he was here on earth because Providence had decreed it, and not from any wish of his own.

Suddenly Alice threw open the outer door.

"Mr. Pain and 'is wife, mum," she announced.

Mr. MacFie and Mr. Hearty became instantly galvanised into activity.

"Not his wife," corrected Mrs. Bindle in a whisper.

"But she is 'is wife," protested Alice indignantly. "Ain't you, mum?" she enquired of Mrs. Pain.

Mrs. Pain simpered her acquiescence as she turned to Mr. MacFie and Mr. Hearty, who had raced towards her.

"You should say 'Mr. and Mrs. Pain,' Alice," said Mrs. Bindle with quiet forbearance.

"Sorry," remarked Alice, turning to go. "I ain't used to this 'ere. Why can't they come in without all this yelling out of names?" she muttered. "They ain't trains."

Mr. Pain, a small man with a bald head and a tuft of black hair in the centre of a protruding forehead, shook hands joyfully with Mr. MacFie and Mr. Hearty. He was wearing a black frock-coat and light brown tweed trousers, a white waistcoat and a royal blue tie. Mrs. Pain was a tall thin woman, garbed in a narrow brown skirt with a cream-coloured bodice, over-elaborated with lace. The sleeves of her blouse reached only just below the elbows, and the cream gloves on her hands failed to form a liaison with the blouse. Round her neck was flung a locket suspended by a massive "gold" chain. Both she and Mr. Pain were violent in their greetings, after which they proceeded over to two chairs by the wall where they seated themselves and proceeded to converse in undertones, Mr. Pain drawing on a pair of black kid gloves.

"Mr. and Mrs. Withers," bawled Alice.

Mrs. Bindle nodded approval, and Mr. and Mrs. Withers shook hands with Mr. Hearty and Mr. MacFie, much as Mr. and Mrs. Pain had done.

Mr. Withers carried a small sandy head on one side, and a frock-coat tightly buttoned over his narrow chest. His smallness was emphasised by the vastness of Mrs. Withers, whose white silk bodice, cut low at the neck, and black skirt, fitted her amorously, as if the wearer's intention were to diminish her size.

For some time Alice carried out her duties with marked success, and Mr. MacFie and Mr. Hearty were kept as busy as an American President at election time. An unfortunate episode occurred in connection with two of the most important members of Mr. MacFie's flock, Mr. Tuddenham and Mr. Muskett.

Mr. Tuddenham was a stout, self-important little man with a red face and a "don't—you—dare—to—argue—with—me—sir" air. Mr. Muskett, on the other hand, was tall and lean with lantern jaws, a sallow complexion and a white beard. Mr. Tuddenham's clothes fitted him like a glove; Mr. Muskett's hung in despairing folds about his person. Mr. Tuddenham wore a high collar, which cut viciously into his red neck; Mr. Muskett's neckwear was nonconformist in cut. Mr. Tuddenham glared at the world through fierce, bloodshot eyes; Mr. Muskett gazed weakly over the top of a pair of pince-nez that hung at one side. Mr. Muskett's voice was an overpowering boom, contrasting oddly with the thin, high-pitched notes of Mr. Tuddenham. Mr. Tuddenham was as upright as a bantam; Mr. Muskett drooped like a wilted lily. No one had ever seen Mr. Muskett without Mr. Tuddenham, or Mr. Tuddenham without Mr. Muskett.

Alice appeared to have considerable difficulty over their names, during which Mr. MacFie and Mr. Hearty stood pretending not to be aware of the presence of the new arrivals. Eventually Alice nodded reassuringly and, taking a step into the room, announced:

"Mr. Muddenham and Mr. Tuskett."

"Tuddenham, girl, Tuddenham!" shrieked Mr. Tuddenham.

"Muskett, I said, Muskett!" boomed Mr. Muskett.

For a moment Alice regarded them with some apprehension, then her face broke into a smile and, with a sideways nod of her head in the direction of the new guests and a jerk of her thumb, she turned laughing to the door, giving a backward kick of mirth as she went out.

The guests now began to arrive thick and fast.

Miss Torkington brought her tow-coloured hair and pince-nez, and a manner that seemed to shout virtue and chastity. She was all action and vivacity, and nothing could dam the flow of her words, just as none could have convinced her that in her pale-blue princess-robe with its high collar she was not the derniÈre crie.

Mrs. Bindle had taken up her position near the door, so that she might correct Alice, should occasion arise.

"The butcher and 'is missus," announced Alice.

"Alice, Alice!" protested Mrs. Bindle in a loud whisper. "You mustn't announce people like that. You should say Mr. and Mrs. Gash."

"I asked 'im, mum," protested Alice, "and that's wot 'e said."

Mrs. Bindle looked anxiously from Mr. Gash, in a check suit and red tie, to his wife in a royal blue short skirt, a pink blouse and white boots with tassels. They smiled good-humouredly. Mrs. Bindle sighed her relief.

Mrs. Bindle decided that it would be wise to leave Alice to her own devices. She knew something of the temper of the outraged domestic. In consequence Alice announced without rebuke Mr. Hippitt as "Mr. Pip-Pip," and Mrs. Muspratt as "Miss Musk-Rat."

Presently her voice was heard without raised in angry reproaches.

"What's your name?" she was heard to demand. "I got to call it out."

"No, you don't, Ruthie dear," was the reply.

Mr. Hearty and Mrs. Bindle exchanged glances. They recognised that voice.

"You leggo, I ain't one of them sort," said the voice of Bindle.

"You ain't goin' in till you give me your name, so there!" was Alice's retort.

The guests focused their attention upon the door. Suddenly it opened a foot and then crashed to again.

"Ah! thought you'd got through, didn't you?" they heard Alice cry triumphantly.

Suddenly the door opened again and Bindle entered with Alice striving to restrain him.

"Now, Ruthie, I'm married; if I wasn't, well, anythink might 'appen. Look! 'ere's my coat and 'at, so don't say I 'aven't trusted you. 'Ere, leggo!"

Bindle made an impressive figure in his evening clothes, patent boots, a large "diamond" stud in the centre of his shirt, a geranium in his button-hole, and a red silk handkerchief tucked in the opening of his waistcoat.

"'Ullo, 'Earty!" he cried genially. "'Ere, call 'er orf," indicating Alice with a jerk of his thumb. "Seems to 'ave taken a fancy to me—an' she ain't the first neither," he added.

Mrs. Bindle motioned to Alice to free Bindle, which she did reluctantly.

Bindle looked round the room with interest.

"This the little lot, 'Earty?" he enquired in a hoarse whisper audible to all. "Don't look a very cheer-o crowd, do they? The idea of goin' to 'eaven seems to make 'em low-spirited."

Bindle regarded Mr. MacFie intently, then turning to Mr. Muskett, who happened to be standing near him, he remarked:

"Can't you see 'im in a night-shirt with wings and an 'arp, a-flutterin' about like a little canary. Wonderful place, 'eaven, sir," said Bindle, looking up at Mr. Muskett.

"Sir!" boomed Mr. Muskett.

Bindle started back, then recovering himself and, leaning forward slightly, he said:

"Do you mind doin' that again, sir, jest to see if I can stand it without jumping."

Mr. Muskett glared at him, swung round on his heel and joined Mr. Tuddenham at the other end of the room.

"Seem to 'ave trod on 'is toes," muttered Bindle as he watched Mr. Muskett obviously explaining to Mr. Tuddenham the insult to which he had just been subjected.

Bindle looked about him with interest, the only guest who seemed thoroughly comfortable and at home. Suddenly his eye caught sight of the text above the refreshment-table, and he grinned broadly. Looking about him for someone to share the joke, he took a step towards his nearest neighbour, Miss Torkington.

"Ain't 'e a knock-out!" he remarked, nudging her with his elbow.

"I beg your pardon!" said Miss Torkington, lifting her chin and folding her hands before her.

"'Im, 'Earty," said Bindle, "ain't 'e a knock-out! Look at that! 'So shall Ye All Likewise Perish,'" he read. "Fancy sticking that up over the grub."

Miss Torkington, her hands still folded before her, with head in the air, wheeled round and walked away in what she conceived to be a dignified manner.

Bindle slowly turned and watched her.

"Quaint old bird," he muttered. "I wonder wot I said to 'urt 'er feelin's."

The glee-party of four had formed up near the harmonium. Mr. Hearty was in earnest conversation with the leader. He wished to see Lady Knob-Kerrick's arrival heralded with appropriate music. The leader of the singers was a man whose serious visage convinced Mr. Hearty that to him might safely be left the selection of "the extra" that was to welcome the patroness of the occasion. Mr. Hearty was unaware that in the leader's heart was a smouldering anger against Lady Knob-Kerrick on account of her rudeness in the recent correspondence that had taken place. Furthermore, he had already received his fee.

"Hi, 'Earty!" Bindle called to Mr. Hearty as he left the leader of the glee-party. "When's the Ole Bird comin'?"

Mr. Hearty turned. "The old bird?" he interrogated with lifted eyebrows.

"Lady Knob-Kerrick," bawled Alice, throwing open the door with a flourish.

Lady Knob-Kerrick sailed into the room, her head held high in supercilious superiority. Following her came her companion, Miss Strint, who had carried self-suppression and toadyism to the point of inspiration. Immediately behind came John, Lady Knob-Kerrick's footman, bearing before him the illuminated address, the purse containing fifty Treasury pound notes, and the silver-mounted hot-water bottle.

Bindle started clapping vigorously. Two or three other guests followed suit; but the look Lady Knob-Kerrick cast about her proved to them conclusively that Bindle had done the wrong thing.

"It is most kind of your ladyship to come." Mr. Hearty fussed about Lady Knob-Kerrick, walking deprecatingly upon his toes. She appeared entirely oblivious of his presence. He turned towards the harmonium and made frantic signals to the leader of the glee-party. Suddenly the quartette broke into song, every word ringing out clearly and distinctly:

THE GLAD EYE.

The last line was rolled out sonorously by the bass.

The company looked at one another in amazement. Lady Knob-Kerrick, scarlet with rage, glared through her lorgnettes at the singers and then at Mr. Hearty, who from where he stood petrified gazed wonderingtly at the glee-party. Mrs. Bindle, with great presence of mind, moved swiftly across the room, and caught the falsetto by the lapel of the coat just as he had opened his mouth to begin his solo verse, dealing with the knowledge acquired by a flapper from the country in the course of a fortnight's holiday in London. Mrs. Bindle made it clear to the leader that as far as the Alton Road Chapel was concerned he was indulging in an optical delusion.

"We are all deeply honoured by your Leddyship's presence this evening," said Mr. MacFie, throwing himself into the breach. "It is——"

"Get me a chair," demanded Lady Knob-Kerrick, still glaring in the direction of the glee-singers.

Bindle rushed at her with a frail-looking hemp-seated chair, which he proceeded to flick with his red silk pocket-handkerchief.

"One be enough, mum?" he enquired solicitously.

Lady Knob-Kerrick regarded him through her lorgnettes.

Mr. Sopley had been detached from his contemplation of the ceiling, and was now led up to Lady Knob-Kerrick.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, "we are indeed greatly honoured."

"'Ere, 'ere!" broke in Bindle, attracting to himself the attention of the whole assembly.

"Will your Ladyship make the presentation now?" enquired Mr. Hearty, "or——"

"Now!" was Lady Knob-Kerrick's uncompromising reply, as she seated herself. "Fetch a table, please," she added, indicating, with an inclination of her head, her footman, who stood with what Bindle called "the prizes."

Mr. Hearty and Mr. Gash trotted off to fetch a small table from the corner of the room. This was placed in front of Lady Knob-Kerrick, and on it John deposited the illuminated address, the bag containing the notes, and the silver-mounted hot-water bottle.

A hush of expectancy fell upon the assembly. Lady Knob-Kerrick rose and was greeted by respectful applause. Her manner was that of a peacock deigning to acknowledge the existence of a group of sparrows. From a dorothy-bag she drew a typewritten paper, which she proceeded to read.

"I have been asked to present to the Rev. James Sopley, as a mark of the esteem in which he is held by his flock, an illuminated address, a purse of fifty pounds, and a silver-mounted hot-water bottle"—she paused for a moment—"a trifle that shall remind him of the loving hearts he has left behind. (Murmurs of respectful appreciation.)

"Mr. Sopley has fought the good fight in Fulham for upwards of twenty-five years, and he is now about to retire to enjoy the rest that he has so well and thoroughly earned. ("'Ere, 'ere!" from Bindle.) I trust and hope that the Lord will spare him for many years to come. ("I'm sure I would if I was Gawd," whispered Bindle to Mr. Tuddenham, who only glared at him.)

"We have now among us," continued Lady Knob-Kerrick, "a new pastor, a man of sterling worth and sound religious principles. ("That's you!" said Bindle in a hoarse whisper, nudging Mr. MacFie who stood next to him.) I have," proceeded Lady Knob-Kerrick, "sat under him ("Oh, naughty! naughty!" whispered Bindle. Lady Knob-Kerrick glared at him),—sat—sat under him for a number of years at Barton Bridge, where he will always be remembered as a man devoted to" ("Temperance fÊtes!" interpolated Bindle.)

The result of the interruption was electrical. Lady Knob-Kerrick dropped her lorgnettes and lost her place. Mr. MacFie's "adam's apple" moved up and down with alarming rapidity, testifying to the great emotional ordeal through which he was passing. Mr. Hearty looked at Mrs. Bindle, Mrs. Bindle looked at Bindle, everybody looked at everybody else, because everyone had heard of the Temperance FÊte fiasco. Lady Knob-Kerrick resumed her seat suddenly.

Then it was that Mr. Hearty had an inspiration. With a swift movement which precipitated him on the foot of Miss Torkington (whose anguished expression caused Bindle to mutter, "Fancy 'er bein' able to do that with 'er face!"), he landed beside Mr. Sopley. He managed to detach his eyes from their contemplation of the ceiling and impress on him that he had better make a reply. As he walked the few steps necessary to reach the table, Bindle once more started clapping vigorously, a greeting that was taken up by several of the other guests, but in a more modified manner.

In a mournful and foreboding voice, thoroughly appropriate to an hour of national disaster, Mr. Sopley thanked Lady Knob-Kerrick for her words, and the others for their notes. He referred to the shepherd, dragged in the sheep, scooped up the righteous, cast out the sinners; in short he said all the most obvious things in the most obvious manner. He promised the Alton Roaders harps and halos, and threw the rest of Fulham into the bottomless pit. With some dexterity he linked-up sin and the taxi-cab, saw in the motor-omnibus the cause of the weakening moral-fibre of the working-classes, expressed it as his conviction that Europe was being drenched in blood because Fulham thought less of faith than of football.

He was frankly pessimistic about the future of the district, an attitude of mind that appeared to have been induced by the garments of the local maidens. Fire and flood he promised Fulham, but made no mention of Hammersmith or Putney. In a voice that throbbed with emotion he took his official leave, having convinced everybody that only his intercessionary powers with heaven had stalled off for so long the impending fate he outlined.

Taking up from the table the bag of fifty pounds, he put it in his pocket and with bowed head walked towards the nearest chair.

"'Ere, you've forgotten your bed-feller, sir!" cried Bindle, picking up the silver-mounted hot-water bottle and the framed address and carrying them over to Mr. Sopley.

Mr. MacFie prepared himself for the ordeal before him. Standing in front of Lady Knob-Kerrick as if she had been an altar, he bowed low before her.

"Your Leddyship." A pause of veneration. "Ma Freends," he continued. "Few meenisters of the Gospel have the preevilege that has been extended to me this evening. It is the will of the Almighty that I succeed a most saintly man (murmurs of approval) in the person of Mr. Sopley. It will be a deefecult poseetion for me to fill. (Mr. Sopley wagged his head from side to side.) In her breeliant oration her Leddyship has emphasised some of the attreebutes of a man whose godliness ye can all testify——"

"You shan't keep me out, you baggage. Can't I hear his dear voice! My Andrew! Oh, Andy! Andy! and they want to keep me away from you."

The interruption came from the door, where Alice was vainly endeavouring to keep out a dishevelled-looking creature, who finally broke through and walked unsteadily towards the table.

Lady Knob-Kerrick turned and stared at the apparition through her lorgnettes.

Mr. MacFie's jaw dropped.

Mr. Sopley for the first time that evening seemed to forget heaven, and devoted himself to terrestrial things. Everybody was gazing with wide-eyed wonder at the cause of the interruption.

"Oh! my Andrew, my little Andy!" cried the woman in hoarse maudlin tones. Her hair, to which was attached a black toque with a brilliant oval of embroidery in front, hung over her left ear. Her clothes, ill-fitting and much stained, hung upon her as if they had been thrown—rather than put on. Her face, intended by Providence to be pretty, was tear-stained and dirty. Her blouse was open at the neck and her boots mud-stained and shapeless.

"What—what is the meaning of this?" demanded Lady Knob-Kerrick of Mr. MacFie, as she rose from her chair, a veritable Rhadamanthus.

The girl, who was now hanging on to Mr. MacFie's arm, turned and regarded Lady Knob-Kerrick over her shoulder.

"He's my boooy," she spluttered; then closing her eyes her head wobbled from side to side, as if her neck were unable to support it.

"Your what?" thundered Lady Knob-Kerrick.

"My—my boooy," drawled the girl, "husband. Oh! Andy, Andy!" and she clung to Mr. MacFie the more closely in spite of his frantic efforts to shake himself free.

"Mr. MacFie, what is the meaning of this?" demanded Lady Knob-Kerrick.

"I've—I've never seen her before," stammered Mr. MacFie, looking as if he had been grabbed by an octopus. "On ma oath, your Leddyship. Before ma God!"

"Andy, Andy! don't say such awful things," protested the girl. "You know you married me secret because you said Helen wouldn't let you;" and she sagged away again, half supporting herself on Mr. MacFie's arm.

"Do you know anything of this woman?" demanded Lady Knob-Kerrick of Miss MacFie.

Miss MacFie shook her head as if the question were an insult.

"Then it was a secret marriage." Lady Knob-Kerrick remembered what she had heard of Mr. MacFie's conduct at the temperance fÊte. "Mr. MacFie, you have—you have disgraced——"

"Your Leddyship, on ma honour, I sweear——!"

"Don't, Andy, don't!" said the girl, striving to put her hand over his mouth. "Don't! God may strike you dead. He did it once, didn't He? Oh! I've learnt the Bible," she added in a maudlin tone. "I can sing hymns, I can." She began to croon something in a wheezy voice.

Mr. MacFie made a desperate effort to free himself from her clutches, but succeeded only in bringing her to her knees.

"Look at 'im! Look at 'im!" shrieked the girl, "knocking me about, what he swore to love, honour and obey. Oh, you devil, Andy! How you used to behave, and now—and now——"

"I swear it's all a damned lee! It's ma enemy—ma enemy. Woman, I know thee not! Thou art the scarlet woman of Babylon! Get thee from me, I curse thee!" Mr. MacFie's Gaelic blood was up.

"Go it, sir!" said Bindle. "Go it!"

"Ye have come as the ravening wolf upon the sheep-fold at night to destroy the lamb." Mr. MacFie waved his disengaged arm.

"You bein' the lamb, sir, go it!" said Bindle.

"I'll hae the law on ye, woman, I'll hae the law on ye! Ye impostor! Ye harlot!! Ye daughter of Belial!!!" He flung his arm about, and his eyes rolled with almost maniacal fury. "Ma God! ma God! Why persecuteth Thou me?" he cried, lifting his eyes to the ceiling.

Then with a sudden drop to earthly things he appealed to Lady Knob-Kerrick.

"Your Leddyship, your Leddyship, do not believe this woman. She lies! She would ruin me!! I will have her arrested!!! Fetch the police!!!! I demand the police!!!!!"

Lady Knob-Kerrick turned towards the door at the entrance of which stood her footman.

"John, blow your police-whistle," she ordered, practical in all things.

John disappeared. A moment later the raucous sound of a police-whistle was heard in continuous blast.

"That's right!" shouted the woman, "that's right! Blow your police-whistle! Blow your pinkish brains out!" Then with a sudden change she turned to Mr. MacFie. "Oh, Andy, Andy! You never was the same man after you 'ad that drink in you down in the country at the temperance fÊte. Don't you remember how you laughed with me about that Old Bird being washed out of her carriage?"

"It's a lee! It's a lee! A damnable lee!" shrieked Mr. MacFie.

Mr. MacFie was interrupted in his protestations by a sudden rush of feet, and the hall began to fill with a wild-eyed, dishevelled crowd. Mothers carrying their babies, or pulling along little children. Everyone inviting everyone else to come in. One woman was in hysterics. Lady Knob-Kerrick stared at them in wonder.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded of no one in particular.

"It's a raid, mum, a raid; it's a raid," sobbed a woman, leading two little children with the hand and holding a baby in her disengaged arm.

Lady Knob-Kerrick paled. "A raid!" she faltered.

"Yes, mum, can't you 'ear the police-whistles?"

"Well, I'm damned!" broke in Bindle, slapping his leg in ecstasy; then a moment after, seeing the terror on the women's faces, he cried out:

"It's all right, there ain't no raid. Don't be frightened. It's ole Calves with that bloomin' police-whistle."

"Tell that fool to stop," cried Lady Knob-Kerrick. A special constable pushed his way through the crowd.

"What is all this about, please?" he demanded.

"There's a raid, sir," cried several voices.

"I give this woman in charge," cried Mr. MacFie, dramatically pointing at her who claimed to be his wife.

With alacrity the special pulled his note-book out of his pocket.

"The charge, sir?" he enquired.

"She says she's ma wife."

The special looked up from his note-book. "That is not an indictable offence, sir, I'm afraid."

"But she's na ma wife," protested Mr. MacFie.

Another rush of people seeking shelter swept the constable on one side, and when he once more strove to take up the thread, the woman had disappeared.

The results of John's vigour with the police-whistle were far-reaching. Omnibuses had drawn up to the kerb and had been promptly deserted by passengers and crew. The trains on the District Railway were plunged in darkness and the authorities at Putney Bridge Station and East Putney telephoned through that there was a big air-raid. Although nothing had been heard at head-quarters, it was deemed advisable to take precautions. Special constables, nurses and ambulances were called out, anti-aircraft stations warned, and tens of thousands of people sent scuttling home.

Bindle was one of the first to leave the School-room, and he made his way over to Dick Little's flat at Chelsea.

"Ah!" cried Dick Little as he opened the door, "Nancy's back. This way," he added, walking towards his bedroom.

In front of the dressing-table stood Private "Nancy" Dane, the far-famed Pierrette of the Passchendaele Pierrots. He was in the act of removing from his closely-cropped head a dark wig to which was attached a black toque with an oval of vivid-coloured embroidery.

"Well, that's that!" he remarked as he laid it on the table. "Hullo, Bindle!" he cried. "All Clear?"

"All Clear!" replied Bindle as he seated himself upon a chair and proceeded to light the big cigar that Dick Little handed him. Dick Little threw himself upon the bed.

"You done it fine," remarked Bindle approvingly, as he watched Dane slowly transform himself into a private of the line. "Pore ole Mac," he added, "'e got the wind up proper."

"Good show, what?" queried Dick Little as he lazily pulled at his pipe, tired after a long day's work in the hospital.

"Seemed a bit cruel to me," said Dane as he struggled out of a pair of hefty-looking corsets.

"Cruel!" cried Bindle indignantly, as he sat up straight in his chair. "Cruel! with 'im a-tryin' to take the gal away from one of the boys wot's fightin' at the front. Cruel! It wouldn't be cruel, Mr. Nancy, if 'e was cut up an' salted an' given to the 'Uns as a meat ration;" and with this ferocious pronouncement Bindle sank back again in his chair and puffed away at his cigar.

"Sorry!" said Dane, laboriously pulling off a stocking.

"Right-o!" said Bindle cheerfully. Then after a pause he added, "I got to thank Ole 'Amlet for that little idea, and you, sir, for findin' Mr. Nancy. Did it wonderful well, 'e did; still," remarked Bindle meditatively, "I wish they 'adn't blown that police-whistle. Them pore women an' kids was that scared, made me feel I didn't ought to 'ave done it; but then, 'ow was I to know that the Ole Bird was goin' to 'anky-panky like that with Calves. Took 'er name they did, that's somethink. Any'ow, ole Mac won't go 'angin' round Millikins again for many a long day. If 'e does I'll punch 'is bloomin' 'ead."

The next day Lady Knob-Kerrick and John were summoned for causing to be blown to the public confusion a police-whistle, and although the summonses were dismissed the magistrate said some very caustic things about the insensate folly of excitable women. He furthermore made it clear that if anybody blew a police-whistle in the south-western district because somebody else's wife had come back unexpectedly, he would without hesitation pass a sentence that would discourage any repetition of so unscrupulous and unpardonable an act.

Mr. MacFie cleared his character to some extent by a sermon on the following Sunday upon the ninth commandment, and by inserting an advertisement in the principal papers offering £20 to anyone who would give information as to the identity of the woman who on the night of the 28th had created a disturbance in the Alton Road School Room.