CHAPTER XV.

"I asked them to have a chop at the club with me."

"Thank you, Wee Winnie," said Miss Jack, disdainfully.

"But think how thoroughly conventional the baronet is! He won't even let his son go out without a chaperon."

"That is true," admitted Miss Jack, visibly impressed. "He is about the most conventional man I ever heard of."

"A widower, too," pursued Miss Nimrod, pressing her advantage.

Miss Jack hesitated.

"And he dines seven sharp at the Junior Widows'."

"Ah then, there is no time to lose," said Miss Jack. They went out arm in arm.

"Have you seen Patrick Boyle's poem in thePlaygoers' Review?" asked Lillie, when the club was clear.

"You mean the great dramatic critic's? No, I haven't seen it, but I have seen extracts and eulogies in every paper."

"I have it here complete," said Lillie. "It is quite interesting to find there is a heart beneath the critic's waistcoat. Read it aloud. No, you don't want the banjo!"

Lord Silverdale obeyed. The poem was entitled.

CRITICUS IN STABULIS (?).

Rallying-point of all playgoers earnest,Packed with incongruous types of humanity,Easily pleased, yet of critics the sternest,Crudely ignoring that all things are vanity.Pit, in thee laughter and tears blend in medley—Would I could sit in thy cozy concavity!No! to the stalls I am drawn, to the deadlyCentre of gravity.Florin, or shilling, or sixpence admission,Often I've paid in my raw juvenility,Purchasing Banbury cakes in addition,Ginger-beer, too, to my highest ability.Villains I hissed like a venomous gander,Virtue I loved next to cheesecakes or chocolate;Now no atrocity raises my dander,No crime can shock o' late.Then I could dote on a red melodrama,Now I demand but limelight on Philosophy,Learned allusions to Buddha and Brahma,Science and Faith and a touch of Theosophy.Farces I slate, on Burlesque I am scathing,Pantomime shakes for a week my serenity;Nothing restores my composure but bathingDeep in Ibsenity.Actors were Gods to my boyish devotion,Actresses angels—in tights and low bodices;Drowned is that pretty and puerile notion,Thrown overboard in the first of my Odysseys.Syrens may sing submarine fascinations,Adult Ulysses remain analytical,Flat notes recording, or reedy vibrations,Tranquilly critical.Here in the stalls we are stiff as if starch, meantOnly for shirt-fronts, to faces had mounted up;Dowagers' wills may be read on their parchment,Beautiful busts on your thumbs may be counted up.Girls in the pit are remarkably rosy,Each claspt by lover who passes the paper-bag;Here I can't even, the girls are so prosy,One digit taper bag.Yet could I sit in the pit of the Surrey,Munching an orange or spooning with 'Arriet;Sadly I fear I should be in no hurryBackward to drive my existence's chariot."Squeezes" are ill compensated by crushes—Stalls may be dull, but they're jolly luxurious;Really the way o'er past joys we can gush isAwfully curious!Life is a chaos of comic confusion,Past things alone take a halo harmonious;So from illusion we wake to illusion,Each as the rest just as true and erroneous.Fin de siècleI am, and so be it!Here's to the problems of sad sociology!This is my weird,—like a man I must dree it,Great is chronology!Even so, once the great drama allured me,Which we all play on the stage universal;"Going behind" the "green" curtain has cured me.All my hope now is 'tis not arehearsal.Still I've played on; to old men's parts I grew fromJuvenile lead, as I'd risen from small-boy,So I'll play on till I get my last cue fromDeath, the old call-boy.

Florin, or shilling, or sixpence admission,Often I've paid in my raw juvenility,Purchasing Banbury cakes in addition,Ginger-beer, too, to my highest ability.Villains I hissed like a venomous gander,Virtue I loved next to cheesecakes or chocolate;Now no atrocity raises my dander,No crime can shock o' late.

Then I could dote on a red melodrama,Now I demand but limelight on Philosophy,Learned allusions to Buddha and Brahma,Science and Faith and a touch of Theosophy.Farces I slate, on Burlesque I am scathing,Pantomime shakes for a week my serenity;Nothing restores my composure but bathingDeep in Ibsenity.

Actors were Gods to my boyish devotion,Actresses angels—in tights and low bodices;Drowned is that pretty and puerile notion,Thrown overboard in the first of my Odysseys.Syrens may sing submarine fascinations,Adult Ulysses remain analytical,Flat notes recording, or reedy vibrations,Tranquilly critical.

Here in the stalls we are stiff as if starch, meantOnly for shirt-fronts, to faces had mounted up;Dowagers' wills may be read on their parchment,Beautiful busts on your thumbs may be counted up.Girls in the pit are remarkably rosy,Each claspt by lover who passes the paper-bag;Here I can't even, the girls are so prosy,One digit taper bag.

Yet could I sit in the pit of the Surrey,Munching an orange or spooning with 'Arriet;Sadly I fear I should be in no hurryBackward to drive my existence's chariot."Squeezes" are ill compensated by crushes—Stalls may be dull, but they're jolly luxurious;Really the way o'er past joys we can gush isAwfully curious!

Life is a chaos of comic confusion,Past things alone take a halo harmonious;So from illusion we wake to illusion,Each as the rest just as true and erroneous.Fin de siècleI am, and so be it!Here's to the problems of sad sociology!This is my weird,—like a man I must dree it,Great is chronology!

Even so, once the great drama allured me,Which we all play on the stage universal;"Going behind" the "green" curtain has cured me.All my hope now is 'tis not arehearsal.Still I've played on; to old men's parts I grew fromJuvenile lead, as I'd risen from small-boy,So I'll play on till I get my last cue fromDeath, the old call-boy.

"Hum! Not at all bad," concluded Lord Silverdale. "I wonder who wrote it."

THE MYSTERIOUS ADVERTISER.

"Junior Widows' Club."Midnight."Dear Miss Dulcimer,"Just a line to tell you what a lovely evening we have had. The baronet seemed greatly taken with Miss Jack and she with him, and they behaved in a conventional manner. Guy and I were able to have a real long chat and he told me all his troubles. It appears that he has just been thrown over by his promised bride under circumstances of a most peculiar character. I gave him the sympathy he needed, but at the same time thought to myself, aha! here is another member for the Old Maids' Club. You rely on me, I will build you up a phalanx of Old Maids that shall just swamp the memory of Hippolyte and her Amazons. I got out of Guy the name and address of the girl who jilted him. I shall call upon Miss Sybil Hotspur the first thing in the morning, and if I do not land her my name is not"Yours cheerily,"Wee Winnie."

"Junior Widows' Club."Midnight.

"Dear Miss Dulcimer,

"Just a line to tell you what a lovely evening we have had. The baronet seemed greatly taken with Miss Jack and she with him, and they behaved in a conventional manner. Guy and I were able to have a real long chat and he told me all his troubles. It appears that he has just been thrown over by his promised bride under circumstances of a most peculiar character. I gave him the sympathy he needed, but at the same time thought to myself, aha! here is another member for the Old Maids' Club. You rely on me, I will build you up a phalanx of Old Maids that shall just swamp the memory of Hippolyte and her Amazons. I got out of Guy the name and address of the girl who jilted him. I shall call upon Miss Sybil Hotspur the first thing in the morning, and if I do not land her my name is not

"Yours cheerily,

"Wee Winnie."

"This may be awkward," said the Honorary Trier, returning the letter to the President. "Miss Nimrod seems to take her own election for granted."

"And to think that we are anxious for members," added Lillie.

"Well, we ought to have somebody to replace Miss Jack," said Silverdale, with a suspicion of a smile. "But do you propose to accept Wee Winnie?"

"I don't know—she is certainly a remarkable girl. Such originality and individuality! Suppose we let things slide a little."

"Very well; we will not commit ourselves yet by saying anything to Miss Nim——"

"Miss Nimrod," announced Turple the magnificent.

"Aha! Here we are again!" cried Wee Winnie. "How are you, everybody? How is the old gentleman? Isn't he here?"

"He is very well, thank you, but he is not one of us," said Lillie.

"Oh! Well, anyhow, I've got another of us."

"Miss Sybil Hotspur?"

"The same. I found her raging like a volcano."

"What—smoking?" queried Silverdale.

"No, no, she is one of the old sort. She merely fumes," said Wee Winnie, laughing as if she had made a joke. "She was raving against the infidelity of men. Poor Guy! How his ears must have tingled. He has sent her a long explanation, but she laughs it to scorn. I persuaded her to let you see it—it is so quaint."

"Have you it with you?" asked Lillie eagerly. Her appetite for tales of real life was growing by what it fed upon.

"Yes—here is his letter, several quires long. But before you can understand it, you must know how the breach came about."

"Lord Silverdale, pass Miss Nimrod the chocolate creams. Or would you like some lemonade?"

"Lemonade by all means," replied Wee Winnie, taking up her favorite attitude astride the sofa. "With just awee drappie of whiskey in it, if you please. I daresay I shall be as dry as a lime-kiln before I've finished the story and read you this letter."

Turple the magnificent duly attended to Miss Nimrod's wants. Whatever he felt, he made no sign. He was simply Turple the magnificent.

"One fine day," said Wee Winnie, "or rather, one day that began fine, a merry party made an excursion into the country. Sybil Hotspur and herfiancé, Guy Fledgely, (and of course the baronet) were of the party. After picknicking on the grass, the party broke up into twos till tea-time. The baronet was good enough to pair off with an unattached young lady, and so Sybil and Guy were free to wander away into a copse. The sun was very hot, and the young man had not spared the fizz. First he took off his coat, to be cooler, then with an afterthought he converted it into a pillow and went to sleep. Meantime Sybil, under the protection of her parasol, steadily perused one of Addiper's early works, chaster in style than in substance, and sneering in exquisitely chiselled epigrams at the weaknesses of his sex. Sybil stole an involuntary glance at Guy—sleeping so peacefully like a babe in the wood, with the squirrels peeping at him trustfully. She felt that Addiper was a jaundiced cynic—that her Guy at least would be faithful unto death. At that instant she saw a folded sheet of paper on the ground near Guy's shoulder. It might have slipped from the inner pocket of the coat on which his head was resting, but if it had she could not put it back without disturbing his slumbers. Besides, it might not belong to him at all. She picked up the paper, opened it, and turned pale as death. This is what she read.

"Manager ofDaily Hurrygraph. Please insert enclosed series, in order named, on alternate days, commencing to-day week. Postal order enclosed."

"'1. Dearest, dearest, dearest. Remember the grotto.—Popsy.

"'2. Dearest, dearest, dearest. This is worse than silence. Sobs are cheap to-day.—Popsy.

"'3. Dearest, dearest, dearest. Only Anastasia and the dog. Thought I should have died. Cruel heart, hope on. The white band of hope! Watchman, what of the night? Shall we say 11.15 from Paddington since the sea will not give up its dead? I have drained the dregs. The rest is silence. Answer to-morrow or I shall dree my weird.—Popsy.'

"There was no signature to the letter, but the writing was that which had hitherto borne to poor Sybil the daily assurances of her lover's devotion. She looked at the sleeping traitor so savagely that he moved uncomfortably, even in his sleep. Like a serpent that scrap of paper had entered into her Eden, and she put it in her bosom that it might sting her. Unnoticed, the shadows had been lengthening, the sky had grown gray, as if in harmony with her blighted hopes. Roughly she roused the sleeper, and hastily they wended their way back to the rendezvous, to find tea just over and the rush to the station just beginning. There was no time to talk till they were seated face to face in the railway carriage. The party had just caught the train, and bundling in anyhow had become separated. Sybil and Guy were alone again.

"Then Sybil plucked from her breast the serpent and held it up.

"'Guy,' she said. 'What is this?'

"He turned pale. 'W—w—here did you get that from?' he stammered.

"'What is this?' she repeated, and read in unsympathetic accents: 'Dearest, dearest, dearest. Remember the grotto.—Popsy.'

"'Who is "dearest"?' she continued.

"'You, of course,' he said with ghastly playfulness.

"Dearest, is you," he said with ghastly playfulness.

"'Indeed. Then allow me to say, sir, Iwillremember the grotto. I shall never forget it, Popsy. If you wish to communicate with me, a penny postage stamp is, I believe, adequate. Perhaps I am also Anastasia, to say nothing of the dog. Or shall we say the 11-15 from Paddington, Popsy?'

"'Sybil, darling,' he broke in piteously. 'Give me back that paper, you wouldn't understand.'

"Sybil silently replaced the serpent in her bosom and leant back haughtily.

"'I can explain all,' he cried wildly.

"'I am listening,' Sybil said.

"'The fact is—I—I——' The young man flushed and stammered. Sybil's pursed lips gave him no assistance.

"'It may seem incredible—you will not believe it.'

"Sybil made no sign.

"'I—I—am the victim of a disease.'

"Sybil stared scornfully.

"'I—I—don't look at me like that, or I can't tell you. I—I—I didn't like to tell you before, but I always knew you would have to know some day. Perhaps it is better it has come out before our marriage. Listen!'

"The young man leant over and breathed solemnly in her ear: 'I suffer from an hereditary tendency to advertise in the agony column.'

"Sybil made no reply. The train drew up at a station. Without a word Sybil left the carriage and rejoined her friends in the next compartment."

"What an extraordinary excuse," exclaimed Lillie.

"So Sybil thought," replied Wee Winnie. "From that day to this—almost a week—she has never spoken to him. And yet Guy persists in his explanation, even to me; which is so superfluous that I am almost inclined tobelieve in its truth. At any rate I will now read you his letter:—

"'Dear Sybil:—"'Perhaps for the last time I address you thus, for if after reading this you still refuse to believe me, I shall not trespass upon your patience again. But for the sake of our past love I beg you to read what follows in a trusting spirit, and if not in a trusting spirit, at least to read it. It is the story of how my father became a baronet, and when you know that, you will perhaps learn to pity and to bear with me."'When a young man my father was bitten by the passion for contributing to the agony column. Some young men spend their money in one way, some in another; this was my father's dissipation. He loved to insert mysterious words and sentences in the advertisement columns of the newspapers, so as to enjoy the sensation of giving food for speculation to a whole people. To sit quietly at home and with a stroke of the pen influence the thoughts of millions of his countrymen—this gave my father the keenest satisfaction. When you come to analyze it, what more does the greatest author do?"'The agony column is the royal road to successful authorship, if the publication of fiction in leading newspapers be any test of success; for my father used sometimes to conduct whole romances by correspondence, after the fashion of the then reigning Wilkie Collins. And the agony column is also the most innocuous method for satisfying that crave for supplying topics of conversation which sometimes leads people to crime. I make this analysis to show you that there was no antecedent improbability about what you seem to consider a wild excuse. The desire to contribute to this department of journalism is no isolated psychical freak; it is related to many othermanifestations of mental activity, and is perfectly intelligible. But this desire, like every other, may be given its head till it runs away with the whole man. So it was with my father. He began—half in fun—with a small advertisement, one insertion. Unfortunately—or fortunately—he made a little hit with it. He heard two men discussing it in a café. The next week he tried again—unsuccessfully this time, so far as he knew. But the third advertisement was again a topic of conversation. Even in his own office (he was training for an architect), he heard the fellows saying, "Did you see that funny advertisement this morning—'Be careful not to break the baby.'""'You can imagine how intoxicating this sort of thing is and how the craving for the secret enjoyment it brings may grow on a man. Gradually my father became the victim of a passion fiercer than the gambler's, yet akin to it. For, he never knew whether his money would procure him the gratification he yearned for or not; it was all a fluke. The most promising mysteries would attract no attention, and even a carefully planned novelette, that ran for a week with as many as three characters intervening, would fall still-born upon the tapis of conversation. But every failure only spurred him to fresh effort. All his spare coin, all his savings, went into the tills of the newspaper cashiers. He cut down his expenses to the uttermost farthing, living abstemiously and dressing almost shabbily, and sacrificing everything to his ambitions. It was lucky he was not in a bank; for he had only a moderate income, and who knows to what he might have been driven? At last my father struck oil. Tired of the unfruitful field of romance, whose best days seemed to be over, my father returned to that rudimentary literature which pleases the widest number of readers, while it has the never-failing charm of the primitive for the jaded disciples of culture. He wrote only polysyllabic unintelligibilities."'Thus for a whole week in every morning agony column he published in large capitals the word:"'Paddlepintospheroskedaddepoid.This was an instantaneous success. But it was only asuccès d'estime. People talked of it, but they could not remember it. It had no seeds of permanence in it. It could never be more than a nine days' wonder. It was an artificial, esoteric novelty, that might please the cliques but could never touch the masses. It lacked the simplicity of real greatness, that unmistakable elementalcachetwhich commends things to the great heart of the people. After a bit, this dawned upon my father; and, profiting by his experience, he determined to create something which should be immortal."'For days he racked his brains, unable to please himself. He had the critical fastidiousness of the true artist, and his ideal ever hovered before him, unseizable. Grotesque words floated about him in abundance, every current of air brought him new suggestions, he lived in a world of strange sounds. But the great combination came not."'Late one night, as he sat brooding by his dying fire, there came a sudden rapping at his chamber door. A flash of joy illumined his face, he started to his feet."'"I have it!" he cried."'"Have what?" said his friend Marple, bursting into the room without further parley."'"Influenza," surlily answered my father, for he was not to be caught napping, and Marple went away hurriedly. Marple was something in the city. The two young men were great friends, but there are some things which cannot be told even to friends. It was not influenza my father had got. To his fevered onomatopœic fancy, Marple's quick quadruple rap had translated itself into the word:Olotutu."'At this hour of the day, my dear Sybil, it is superfluous to say anything about this word, with which you have been familiar from your cradle. It has now been before the public over a quarter of a century, and it has long since won immortality. Little did you think when we sat in the railway carriage yesterday, that the "Olotutu" that glared at you from the partition was the far-away cause of the cloud now hanging over our lives. But it may be interesting to you to learn that in the early days many people put the accent on the second syllable, whereas all the world now knows, the accent is on the first, and the "o" of "ol" is short. When my father found he had set the Thames on fire, he was almost beside himself with joy. At the office the clerks, in the intervals of wondering about "Olotutu" wondered if he had come into a fortune. He determined to follow up his success: to back the winning word, to consecrate his life to "Olotutu," to put all his money on it. Thenceforwards for the next three months you very rarely opened a paper without seeing the word, "Olotutu." It stood always by itself, self-complete and independent, rigid and austere, in provoking sphynx-like solitude. Sybil, imagine to yourself my father's rapture! To be the one man in all England who had the clue to the enigma of "Olotutu!" At last the burden of his secret became intolerable. He felt he must breathe a hint of it or die. One night while Marple was smoking in his rooms and wondering about "Olotutu," my father proudly told him all."'"Great heavens!" exclaimed Marple. "Tip us your flipper, old man! You are a millionaire.""'"A what?" gasped my father."'"A millionaire!""'"Are you a lunatic?""'"Are you an idiot? Don't you see that there is a fortune in 'Olotutu'?""'"A fortune! How?""'"By bringing it out as a Joint Stock Company.""'"But—but—but you don't understand. 'Olotutu' is only——""'"Only an income for life," interrupted Marple excitedly. "Look here, old boy, I'll get you up a syndicate to run it in twenty-four hours.""'"Do you mean to say——?""'"No, I mean to do. I'm an ass not to quietly annex it all to myself, but I always said I was too honest for the City. Give me 'Olotutu' and we'll divide the profits. Glory! Hooray!""'He capered about the floor wildly."'"But what profits? Where from?" asked my father, still unenlightened, for, outside architecture, he was a greenhorn."'Marple sang the "Ba, ba, ba, boodle-dee" of the day, and continued his wild career."'My father seized him by the throat and pushed him into a chair."'"Speak, man," he cried agitatedly. "Stop your tomfoolery and talk sense.""'"I am talking cents—which is better," said Marple, with a boisterous burst of laughter. "A word that all the world is talking about is a gold-mine—a real gold-mine. I mean, not one on a prospectus. Don't you see that 'Olotutu' is a household word, and that everybody imagines it is the name of some new patent, something which the proprietor has been keeping dark? I did myself. When at last 'Olotutu'isput upon the market it will come into the world under the fierce light that beats upon a boom, and it will be snapped up like currant cake at a tea-fight. Why, Nemo's Fruit Pepper, which has been on every hoarding for twenty years, is not half so much talked about as 'Olotutu.' What you achieved is an immense preliminary advertisement—andyou were calmly thinking of stopping there! Within sight of Pactolus!""'"I had achievedmyend!" replied my father with dignity. "Art for art's sake—I did not work for money.""'"Then you refuse half the profits?""'"Oh, no, no! If the artist's work brings him money, he cannot help it. I think I catch your idea now. You wish to put some commodity upon the market attached to the name of 'Olotutu.' We have a pedestal but no statue, a cloak but nothing to cover.""'"We shall have plenty to cover soon," observed Marple winking. And he sat himself unceremoniously at my writing-desk and began scribbling away for dear life."'"I suppose then," went on my father, "we shall have to get hold of some article and manufacture it.""'"Nonsense," jerked Marple. "Where are we to get the capital from?""'"Oh, I see you will get the syndicate to do it?""'"Good gracious, man!" yelped Marple. "Do you suppose the syndicate will have any capital? Let me write in peace.""'"But whoisgoing to manufacture 'Olotutu' then?" persisted my father."'"The British Public of course," thundered Marple. My father was silenced. The feverish scratching of Marple's pen continued, working my father up to an indescribable nervous tension."'"But what will 'Olotutu' be?" he inquired at last. "A patent medicine, a tobacco, a soap, a mine, a comic paper, a beverage, a tooth-powder, a hair-restorer?""'"Look here, old man!" roared Marple. "How do you expect me to bother about details? This thing has got to be worked at once. The best part of the Company season is already over. But 'Olotutu' is going to make it up. Mark my words the shares of 'Olotutu' willbe at a premium on the day of issue. Another sheet of paper, quick.""'"What for?""'"I want to write to a firm of Chartered Accountants and Valuers to give an estimate of the profits!""'"An estimate of the profits?""'"Don't talk like a parrot!""'"But how can they estimate the profits?""'"How? what do you suppose they're chartered for? You or I couldn't do it; of course not. But it's the business of accountants! That's what they're for. Pass me more writing-paper—reams of it!"The public curiosity amounted to frenzy."'Marple spent the whole of that night writing letters to what he called his tame guinea-pigs; and the very next day large bills bearing the solitary word "Olotutu" were posted up all over London till the public curiosity mounted to frenzy. The bill-posters earnt many a half-crown by misinforming the inquisitive. Marple worked like a horse. First he drew up the Prospectus, leaving blanks for the Board of Directors of the Company. Then he filled up the blanks. It was not easy. One lord was only induced to serve on Marple's convincing representations of the good 'Olotutu' would do to the masses. When the Board was complete, Marple had still to get the Syndicate from which the Directors were to acquire "Olotutu," but he left this till the end, knowing there would be no difficulty there. I have never been able to gather from my father exactly what went on, nor does my father profess to know exactly himself, but he tells with regret how he used to worry Marple daily by inquiring if he had yet decided what "Olotutu" was to be, as if Marple had not his hands full enough without that. Marple turned round on him one day and shrieked: "That's your affair, not mine. You're selling 'Olotutu' to me, aren't you? I can't be buyer and seller, too.""'This, by the way, does not seem to be as impossible as it sounds for, according to my father, when the company came out, Marple bought and sold "Olotutu" in the most mysterious manner, rigging the market, watering the shares, cornering the bears, and doing other extraordinary things, each and all at a profit. He was not satisfied with his share of the price paid for "Olotutu" by the syndicate, nor with his share of the enormously higher price paid to the syndicate by the public, but went in for Stock Exchange manœuvres six-deep, coming out an easy winner on settling day. One of my father's most treasured collections is the complete set of proofs of the prospectus. It went through thirteen editions before it reached the public; no author could revise his book more lovingly than Marple revised that prospectus. What tales printers could tell to be sure! The most noticeable variations in the text of my father's collection are the omission or addition of cyphers. Some of the editions have £120,000 for the share capital of the Company, where others have £1,200,000 and others £12,000. Sometimes the directors appear to have extenuated "nought," sometimes to have set down "nought" in malice. As for the number of debenture shares, the amounts to be paid up on allotment, the contracts with divers obscure individuals, the number of shares to be taken up by the directors and the number to be accepted by the vendors in part payment, these vary indefinitely; but in no edition, not even in those still void of the names of the directors, do the profits guaranteed by the directors fall below twenty-five per cent. Sometimes the complex and brain-baffling calculations that fill page three result in a bigger profit, sometimes in a smaller, but they are always cheering to contemplate."'There is not very much about "Olotutu" itself even in the last edition, but from the very first, there is a great deal about the power of the company to manufacture, import,export, and deal in all kinds of materials, commodities, and articles necessary for and useful in carrying on the same; to carry on any other operations or business which the company might from time to time deem expedient in connection with its main business for the time being; to purchase, take in exchange, or on lease, hire, or otherwise, in any part of the world, for any estate, or interests, any lands, factories, buildings, easements, patent rights, brands and trademarks, concessions, privileges, machinery, plant, stock-in-trade, utensils, necessary or convenient, for the purposes of the company, or to sell, exchange, let or rent royalty, share of profits, or otherwise use and grant licenses, easements and other rights of and over, and in any other manner deal with or dispose of the whole or any part of the undertaking, business and property of the Company, and in consideration to accept cash or shares, stock, debenture or securities of any company whose objects were or included objects similar to those of the Company."'The actual nature of "Olotutu" does not seem to have been settled till the ninth edition, but all the editions include the analyst's report, certifying that "Olotutu" contains no injurious ingredients and is far purer and safer than any other (here there was a blank in the first eight editions in the market). From this it is evident that Marple has made up his mind to something chemical, though it is equally apparent that he kept an open mind regards its precise character, for in the ninth edition the blank is filled up with "purgative," in the tenth with "meat extract," in the eleventh with "hair-dye," in the twelfth with "cod liver oil," and it is only in the thirteenth edition that the final decision seems to have been arrived at in favor of "soap." This of course, my dear Sybil, you already know. Indeed, if I mistake not, "Olotutu," the only absolutely scentless soap in the market, is your ownpet soap. I hope it will not shock you too much if I tell you in the strictest confidence that except in price, stamp, and copious paper-wrapping, "Olotutu" is simply bars of yellow soap chopped small. It was here, perhaps, that Marple's genius showed to the highest advantage. The public was overdone with patent scented soaps; there seemed something unhealthy or at least molly-coddling about their use; the time was ripe for return to the rude and primitive. "Absolutely scentless" became the trademark of "Olotutu" and the public, being absolutely senseless (pace, my dear Sybil), somehow concluded that because the soap was devoid of scent it was impregnated with sanitation."'Is there need to prolong the story? My father, so unexpectedly enriched, abandoned architecture and married almost immediately. Soon he became the idol of a popular constituency, and, voting steadily with his party, was made a baronet. I was born a few months after the first dividend was announced. It was a dividend of thirty-three per cent, for "Olotutu" had become an indispensable adjunct to every toilet-table and the financial papers published leaders, boasting of having put their clients up to a good thing, and "Olotutu" was on everybody's tongue and got into everybody's eyes."'Can you wonder, then, that I was born with a congenital craving for springing mysteries upon the public? Can you still disbelieve that I suffer from an hereditary tendency to advertise in the agony column?"'At periodic intervals an irresistible prompting to force uncouth words upon the universal consciousness seizes me; at other times I am driven to beguile the public with pseudo-sensational communications to imaginary personages. It was fortunate my father early discovered my penchant and told me the story of his life, for I think the very knowledge that I am the victim of heredity helps meto defy my own instincts. No man likes to feel he is the shuttlecock of blind forces. Still they are occasionally too strong for me, and my present attack has been unusually severe and protracted. I have been passing through my father's early phases and conducting romances by correspondence. Complimentary to the series of messages signed Popsy, I had prepared a series signed Wopsy to go in on alternate days, and if you had only continued your search in my coat-pocket you would have discovered these proofs of my innocence. May I trust it is now re-established, and that "Olotutu" has washed away the apparent stain on my character? With anxious heart I await your reply."'Ever yours devotedly,"'Guy

"'Dear Sybil:—

"'Perhaps for the last time I address you thus, for if after reading this you still refuse to believe me, I shall not trespass upon your patience again. But for the sake of our past love I beg you to read what follows in a trusting spirit, and if not in a trusting spirit, at least to read it. It is the story of how my father became a baronet, and when you know that, you will perhaps learn to pity and to bear with me.

"'When a young man my father was bitten by the passion for contributing to the agony column. Some young men spend their money in one way, some in another; this was my father's dissipation. He loved to insert mysterious words and sentences in the advertisement columns of the newspapers, so as to enjoy the sensation of giving food for speculation to a whole people. To sit quietly at home and with a stroke of the pen influence the thoughts of millions of his countrymen—this gave my father the keenest satisfaction. When you come to analyze it, what more does the greatest author do?

"'The agony column is the royal road to successful authorship, if the publication of fiction in leading newspapers be any test of success; for my father used sometimes to conduct whole romances by correspondence, after the fashion of the then reigning Wilkie Collins. And the agony column is also the most innocuous method for satisfying that crave for supplying topics of conversation which sometimes leads people to crime. I make this analysis to show you that there was no antecedent improbability about what you seem to consider a wild excuse. The desire to contribute to this department of journalism is no isolated psychical freak; it is related to many othermanifestations of mental activity, and is perfectly intelligible. But this desire, like every other, may be given its head till it runs away with the whole man. So it was with my father. He began—half in fun—with a small advertisement, one insertion. Unfortunately—or fortunately—he made a little hit with it. He heard two men discussing it in a café. The next week he tried again—unsuccessfully this time, so far as he knew. But the third advertisement was again a topic of conversation. Even in his own office (he was training for an architect), he heard the fellows saying, "Did you see that funny advertisement this morning—'Be careful not to break the baby.'"

"'You can imagine how intoxicating this sort of thing is and how the craving for the secret enjoyment it brings may grow on a man. Gradually my father became the victim of a passion fiercer than the gambler's, yet akin to it. For, he never knew whether his money would procure him the gratification he yearned for or not; it was all a fluke. The most promising mysteries would attract no attention, and even a carefully planned novelette, that ran for a week with as many as three characters intervening, would fall still-born upon the tapis of conversation. But every failure only spurred him to fresh effort. All his spare coin, all his savings, went into the tills of the newspaper cashiers. He cut down his expenses to the uttermost farthing, living abstemiously and dressing almost shabbily, and sacrificing everything to his ambitions. It was lucky he was not in a bank; for he had only a moderate income, and who knows to what he might have been driven? At last my father struck oil. Tired of the unfruitful field of romance, whose best days seemed to be over, my father returned to that rudimentary literature which pleases the widest number of readers, while it has the never-failing charm of the primitive for the jaded disciples of culture. He wrote only polysyllabic unintelligibilities.

"'Thus for a whole week in every morning agony column he published in large capitals the word:

"'Paddlepintospheroskedaddepoid.

This was an instantaneous success. But it was only asuccès d'estime. People talked of it, but they could not remember it. It had no seeds of permanence in it. It could never be more than a nine days' wonder. It was an artificial, esoteric novelty, that might please the cliques but could never touch the masses. It lacked the simplicity of real greatness, that unmistakable elementalcachetwhich commends things to the great heart of the people. After a bit, this dawned upon my father; and, profiting by his experience, he determined to create something which should be immortal.

"'For days he racked his brains, unable to please himself. He had the critical fastidiousness of the true artist, and his ideal ever hovered before him, unseizable. Grotesque words floated about him in abundance, every current of air brought him new suggestions, he lived in a world of strange sounds. But the great combination came not.

"'Late one night, as he sat brooding by his dying fire, there came a sudden rapping at his chamber door. A flash of joy illumined his face, he started to his feet.

"'"I have it!" he cried.

"'"Have what?" said his friend Marple, bursting into the room without further parley.

"'"Influenza," surlily answered my father, for he was not to be caught napping, and Marple went away hurriedly. Marple was something in the city. The two young men were great friends, but there are some things which cannot be told even to friends. It was not influenza my father had got. To his fevered onomatopœic fancy, Marple's quick quadruple rap had translated itself into the word:Olotutu.

"'At this hour of the day, my dear Sybil, it is superfluous to say anything about this word, with which you have been familiar from your cradle. It has now been before the public over a quarter of a century, and it has long since won immortality. Little did you think when we sat in the railway carriage yesterday, that the "Olotutu" that glared at you from the partition was the far-away cause of the cloud now hanging over our lives. But it may be interesting to you to learn that in the early days many people put the accent on the second syllable, whereas all the world now knows, the accent is on the first, and the "o" of "ol" is short. When my father found he had set the Thames on fire, he was almost beside himself with joy. At the office the clerks, in the intervals of wondering about "Olotutu" wondered if he had come into a fortune. He determined to follow up his success: to back the winning word, to consecrate his life to "Olotutu," to put all his money on it. Thenceforwards for the next three months you very rarely opened a paper without seeing the word, "Olotutu." It stood always by itself, self-complete and independent, rigid and austere, in provoking sphynx-like solitude. Sybil, imagine to yourself my father's rapture! To be the one man in all England who had the clue to the enigma of "Olotutu!" At last the burden of his secret became intolerable. He felt he must breathe a hint of it or die. One night while Marple was smoking in his rooms and wondering about "Olotutu," my father proudly told him all.

"'"Great heavens!" exclaimed Marple. "Tip us your flipper, old man! You are a millionaire."

"'"A what?" gasped my father.

"'"A millionaire!"

"'"Are you a lunatic?"

"'"Are you an idiot? Don't you see that there is a fortune in 'Olotutu'?"

"'"A fortune! How?"

"'"By bringing it out as a Joint Stock Company."

"'"But—but—but you don't understand. 'Olotutu' is only——"

"'"Only an income for life," interrupted Marple excitedly. "Look here, old boy, I'll get you up a syndicate to run it in twenty-four hours."

"'"Do you mean to say——?"

"'"No, I mean to do. I'm an ass not to quietly annex it all to myself, but I always said I was too honest for the City. Give me 'Olotutu' and we'll divide the profits. Glory! Hooray!"

"'He capered about the floor wildly.

"'"But what profits? Where from?" asked my father, still unenlightened, for, outside architecture, he was a greenhorn.

"'Marple sang the "Ba, ba, ba, boodle-dee" of the day, and continued his wild career.

"'My father seized him by the throat and pushed him into a chair.

"'"Speak, man," he cried agitatedly. "Stop your tomfoolery and talk sense."

"'"I am talking cents—which is better," said Marple, with a boisterous burst of laughter. "A word that all the world is talking about is a gold-mine—a real gold-mine. I mean, not one on a prospectus. Don't you see that 'Olotutu' is a household word, and that everybody imagines it is the name of some new patent, something which the proprietor has been keeping dark? I did myself. When at last 'Olotutu'isput upon the market it will come into the world under the fierce light that beats upon a boom, and it will be snapped up like currant cake at a tea-fight. Why, Nemo's Fruit Pepper, which has been on every hoarding for twenty years, is not half so much talked about as 'Olotutu.' What you achieved is an immense preliminary advertisement—andyou were calmly thinking of stopping there! Within sight of Pactolus!"

"'"I had achievedmyend!" replied my father with dignity. "Art for art's sake—I did not work for money."

"'"Then you refuse half the profits?"

"'"Oh, no, no! If the artist's work brings him money, he cannot help it. I think I catch your idea now. You wish to put some commodity upon the market attached to the name of 'Olotutu.' We have a pedestal but no statue, a cloak but nothing to cover."

"'"We shall have plenty to cover soon," observed Marple winking. And he sat himself unceremoniously at my writing-desk and began scribbling away for dear life.

"'"I suppose then," went on my father, "we shall have to get hold of some article and manufacture it."

"'"Nonsense," jerked Marple. "Where are we to get the capital from?"

"'"Oh, I see you will get the syndicate to do it?"

"'"Good gracious, man!" yelped Marple. "Do you suppose the syndicate will have any capital? Let me write in peace."

"'"But whoisgoing to manufacture 'Olotutu' then?" persisted my father.

"'"The British Public of course," thundered Marple. My father was silenced. The feverish scratching of Marple's pen continued, working my father up to an indescribable nervous tension.

"'"But what will 'Olotutu' be?" he inquired at last. "A patent medicine, a tobacco, a soap, a mine, a comic paper, a beverage, a tooth-powder, a hair-restorer?"

"'"Look here, old man!" roared Marple. "How do you expect me to bother about details? This thing has got to be worked at once. The best part of the Company season is already over. But 'Olotutu' is going to make it up. Mark my words the shares of 'Olotutu' willbe at a premium on the day of issue. Another sheet of paper, quick."

"'"What for?"

"'"I want to write to a firm of Chartered Accountants and Valuers to give an estimate of the profits!"

"'"An estimate of the profits?"

"'"Don't talk like a parrot!"

"'"But how can they estimate the profits?"

"'"How? what do you suppose they're chartered for? You or I couldn't do it; of course not. But it's the business of accountants! That's what they're for. Pass me more writing-paper—reams of it!"

The public curiosity amounted to frenzy.

"'Marple spent the whole of that night writing letters to what he called his tame guinea-pigs; and the very next day large bills bearing the solitary word "Olotutu" were posted up all over London till the public curiosity mounted to frenzy. The bill-posters earnt many a half-crown by misinforming the inquisitive. Marple worked like a horse. First he drew up the Prospectus, leaving blanks for the Board of Directors of the Company. Then he filled up the blanks. It was not easy. One lord was only induced to serve on Marple's convincing representations of the good 'Olotutu' would do to the masses. When the Board was complete, Marple had still to get the Syndicate from which the Directors were to acquire "Olotutu," but he left this till the end, knowing there would be no difficulty there. I have never been able to gather from my father exactly what went on, nor does my father profess to know exactly himself, but he tells with regret how he used to worry Marple daily by inquiring if he had yet decided what "Olotutu" was to be, as if Marple had not his hands full enough without that. Marple turned round on him one day and shrieked: "That's your affair, not mine. You're selling 'Olotutu' to me, aren't you? I can't be buyer and seller, too."

"'This, by the way, does not seem to be as impossible as it sounds for, according to my father, when the company came out, Marple bought and sold "Olotutu" in the most mysterious manner, rigging the market, watering the shares, cornering the bears, and doing other extraordinary things, each and all at a profit. He was not satisfied with his share of the price paid for "Olotutu" by the syndicate, nor with his share of the enormously higher price paid to the syndicate by the public, but went in for Stock Exchange manœuvres six-deep, coming out an easy winner on settling day. One of my father's most treasured collections is the complete set of proofs of the prospectus. It went through thirteen editions before it reached the public; no author could revise his book more lovingly than Marple revised that prospectus. What tales printers could tell to be sure! The most noticeable variations in the text of my father's collection are the omission or addition of cyphers. Some of the editions have £120,000 for the share capital of the Company, where others have £1,200,000 and others £12,000. Sometimes the directors appear to have extenuated "nought," sometimes to have set down "nought" in malice. As for the number of debenture shares, the amounts to be paid up on allotment, the contracts with divers obscure individuals, the number of shares to be taken up by the directors and the number to be accepted by the vendors in part payment, these vary indefinitely; but in no edition, not even in those still void of the names of the directors, do the profits guaranteed by the directors fall below twenty-five per cent. Sometimes the complex and brain-baffling calculations that fill page three result in a bigger profit, sometimes in a smaller, but they are always cheering to contemplate.

"'There is not very much about "Olotutu" itself even in the last edition, but from the very first, there is a great deal about the power of the company to manufacture, import,export, and deal in all kinds of materials, commodities, and articles necessary for and useful in carrying on the same; to carry on any other operations or business which the company might from time to time deem expedient in connection with its main business for the time being; to purchase, take in exchange, or on lease, hire, or otherwise, in any part of the world, for any estate, or interests, any lands, factories, buildings, easements, patent rights, brands and trademarks, concessions, privileges, machinery, plant, stock-in-trade, utensils, necessary or convenient, for the purposes of the company, or to sell, exchange, let or rent royalty, share of profits, or otherwise use and grant licenses, easements and other rights of and over, and in any other manner deal with or dispose of the whole or any part of the undertaking, business and property of the Company, and in consideration to accept cash or shares, stock, debenture or securities of any company whose objects were or included objects similar to those of the Company.

"'The actual nature of "Olotutu" does not seem to have been settled till the ninth edition, but all the editions include the analyst's report, certifying that "Olotutu" contains no injurious ingredients and is far purer and safer than any other (here there was a blank in the first eight editions in the market). From this it is evident that Marple has made up his mind to something chemical, though it is equally apparent that he kept an open mind regards its precise character, for in the ninth edition the blank is filled up with "purgative," in the tenth with "meat extract," in the eleventh with "hair-dye," in the twelfth with "cod liver oil," and it is only in the thirteenth edition that the final decision seems to have been arrived at in favor of "soap." This of course, my dear Sybil, you already know. Indeed, if I mistake not, "Olotutu," the only absolutely scentless soap in the market, is your ownpet soap. I hope it will not shock you too much if I tell you in the strictest confidence that except in price, stamp, and copious paper-wrapping, "Olotutu" is simply bars of yellow soap chopped small. It was here, perhaps, that Marple's genius showed to the highest advantage. The public was overdone with patent scented soaps; there seemed something unhealthy or at least molly-coddling about their use; the time was ripe for return to the rude and primitive. "Absolutely scentless" became the trademark of "Olotutu" and the public, being absolutely senseless (pace, my dear Sybil), somehow concluded that because the soap was devoid of scent it was impregnated with sanitation.

"'Is there need to prolong the story? My father, so unexpectedly enriched, abandoned architecture and married almost immediately. Soon he became the idol of a popular constituency, and, voting steadily with his party, was made a baronet. I was born a few months after the first dividend was announced. It was a dividend of thirty-three per cent, for "Olotutu" had become an indispensable adjunct to every toilet-table and the financial papers published leaders, boasting of having put their clients up to a good thing, and "Olotutu" was on everybody's tongue and got into everybody's eyes.

"'Can you wonder, then, that I was born with a congenital craving for springing mysteries upon the public? Can you still disbelieve that I suffer from an hereditary tendency to advertise in the agony column?

"'At periodic intervals an irresistible prompting to force uncouth words upon the universal consciousness seizes me; at other times I am driven to beguile the public with pseudo-sensational communications to imaginary personages. It was fortunate my father early discovered my penchant and told me the story of his life, for I think the very knowledge that I am the victim of heredity helps meto defy my own instincts. No man likes to feel he is the shuttlecock of blind forces. Still they are occasionally too strong for me, and my present attack has been unusually severe and protracted. I have been passing through my father's early phases and conducting romances by correspondence. Complimentary to the series of messages signed Popsy, I had prepared a series signed Wopsy to go in on alternate days, and if you had only continued your search in my coat-pocket you would have discovered these proofs of my innocence. May I trust it is now re-established, and that "Olotutu" has washed away the apparent stain on my character? With anxious heart I await your reply.

"'Ever yours devotedly,

"'Guy

"Sybil's reply was: 'I have read your letter. Do not write to me again.' She was so set against him," concluded Miss Nimrod, "she would not even write this but wired it."

"Then she does not believe the story of how Guy Fledgely's father became a baronet," said Lord Silverdale.

"She does not. She says 'Olotutu' won't wash stains."

"Well, I suppose you will be bringing her up," said the President.

"I will—in the way she should go;" answered Wee Winnie. "To-day is Saturday; I will bring her on Monday. Meantime as it is getting very late, and as I have finished my lemonade, I will bid you good afternoon—have you used 'Olotutu?'" And with this facetious inquiry Miss Nimrod twirled her stick and was off.

An hour later Lillie received a wire from Wee Winnie.

"Olotutu. Wretches just reconciled. Letter follows."

And this was the letter that came by the first post on Monday.

"My poor President:"We have lost Sybil. She takes in theHurrygraphand reads the agony column religiously. So all the week she has been exposed to a terrible bombardment."As thus (Tuesday.) 'My lost darling. A thousand demons are knocking at my door. Say you forgive me or I will let them in.—Bobo.'"Or thus. (Wednesday.) 'My lost darling. You are making a terrible mistake. I am innocent. I am writing this on my bended knees. The fathers have eaten a sour grape. Misericordia.—Bobo.'"The bitter cry of the outcast lover increased daily in intensity, till on Saturday it became delirious."'My lost darling. Save, O Save! I have opened the door. They are there—in their thousands. The children's teeth are set on edge. The grave is dug. Betwixt two worlds I fall to the ground. Adieu forever.—Bobo.'"Will you believe that the poor little fool thought all this was meant for her, and that in consequence she thawed day by day till on Saturday she melted entirely and gushed on Guy's shoulder? Guy admitted that he had inserted these advertisements, but he did not tell her (as he afterwards told me in confidence, and as I now tell you in confidence) that they had been sent in before the quarrel occurred and constituted his Agony Column romance for the week, the Popsy Wopsy romance not being intended for publication till next week. He had concocted these cries of despairing passion without the least idea they would so nearly cover his own case. But he says that as hishereditary craze got him into the scrape, it was only fair his hereditary craze should get him out of it."So that's the end of Sybil Hotspur. But let us not lament her too much. One so frail and fickle was not of the stuff of which Old Maids are made. Courage! Wee Winnie is on the warpath."Yours affectionately,"Nelly."

"My poor President:

"We have lost Sybil. She takes in theHurrygraphand reads the agony column religiously. So all the week she has been exposed to a terrible bombardment.

"As thus (Tuesday.) 'My lost darling. A thousand demons are knocking at my door. Say you forgive me or I will let them in.—Bobo.'

"Or thus. (Wednesday.) 'My lost darling. You are making a terrible mistake. I am innocent. I am writing this on my bended knees. The fathers have eaten a sour grape. Misericordia.—Bobo.'

"The bitter cry of the outcast lover increased daily in intensity, till on Saturday it became delirious.

"'My lost darling. Save, O Save! I have opened the door. They are there—in their thousands. The children's teeth are set on edge. The grave is dug. Betwixt two worlds I fall to the ground. Adieu forever.—Bobo.'

"Will you believe that the poor little fool thought all this was meant for her, and that in consequence she thawed day by day till on Saturday she melted entirely and gushed on Guy's shoulder? Guy admitted that he had inserted these advertisements, but he did not tell her (as he afterwards told me in confidence, and as I now tell you in confidence) that they had been sent in before the quarrel occurred and constituted his Agony Column romance for the week, the Popsy Wopsy romance not being intended for publication till next week. He had concocted these cries of despairing passion without the least idea they would so nearly cover his own case. But he says that as hishereditary craze got him into the scrape, it was only fair his hereditary craze should get him out of it.

"So that's the end of Sybil Hotspur. But let us not lament her too much. One so frail and fickle was not of the stuff of which Old Maids are made. Courage! Wee Winnie is on the warpath.

"Yours affectionately,

"Nelly."

THE CLUB BECOMES POPULAR.

The influence of Wee Winnie on the war-path was soon apparent. On the following Wednesday morning the ante-room of the Club was as crowded with candidates as if Lillie had advertised for a clerk with three tongues at ten pounds a year. Silverdale had gone down to Fleet Street to inquire if anything had been heard of Miss Ellaline Rand's projected paper, and Lillie grappled with the applicants single-handed.

Turple the magnificent, was told to usher them into the confessional one by one, but the first two candidates insisted that they were one, and as he could not tell which one he gave way.

It is said that the shepherd knows every sheep of his flock individually, and that a superintendent can tell one policeman from another. Some music-hall managers even profess to distinguish between one pair of singing sisters and all the other pairs. But even the most trained eye would be puzzled to detect any difference between these two lovely young creatures. They were as like as two peas or two cues, or the two gentlemen who mount and descend together the mirror-lined staircase of a restaurant. Interrogated as to the motives of their would-be renunciation, one of them replied: "My sister and myself are twins. We were born so. When the news was announced to our father, he is reported to have exclaimed, 'What a misfortune!'His sympathy was not misplaced, for from our nursery days upward our perfect resemblance to each other has brought us perpetual annoyance. Do what we would, we never could never get mistaken for each other. The pleasing delusion that either of us would be saddled with the misdeeds of the other has got us into scrapes without number. At school we each played all sorts of pranks, making sure the other would be punished for them. Alas! the consequences have always recoiled on the head of the guilty party. We were not even whipped for neglecting each other's lessons. It was always for neglecting our own. But in spite of the stern refusal of experience to favor us with the usual imbroglio, we always went on hoping that the luck would turn. We read Shakespeare'sComedy of Errors, and that confirmed us in our evil courses. When we grew up, it would be hard to say which was the giddier, for each hoped that the other would have to bear the burden of her escapades. You will have gathered from our friskiness that our parents were strict Puritans, but at last they allowed an eligible young curate to visit the house with a view to matrimony. He was too good for us; our parents were as much as we wanted in that line. Unfortunately, in this crisis, unknown to each other, the old temptation seized us. Each felt it a unique chance of trying if the thing wouldn't work. When the other was out of the room, each made love to the unwelcome suitor so as to make him fall in love with her sister. Wretched victims of mendacious farce-writers! The result was that he fell in love with us both!"

She paused a moment overcome with emotion, then resumed. "He proposed to us both simultaneously, vowed he could not live without us. He exclaimed passionately that he could not be happy with either were t'other dear charmer away. He said he was ready to become a Mormon for love of us."

He was willing to become a Mormon.

"And what was your reply?" said Lillie anxiously.

The fresh young voices broke out into a duet: "We told him to ask papa."

"We were both so overwhelmed by this catastrophe," pursued the story-teller, "that we vowed for mutual self-protection against our besetting temptation to fribble at the other's expense, never to let each other out of sight. In the farces all the mistakes happen through the twins being on only one at a time. Thus have we balanced each other's tendencies to indiscretion before it was too late, and saved ourselves from ourselves. This necessity of being always together, imposed on us by our unhappy resemblance, naturally excludes either from marriage."

Lillie was not favorably impressed with these skittish sisters. "I sympathize intensely with the sufferings of either," she said slily, "in being constrained to the society of the other. But your motives of celibacy are not sufficiently pure, nor have you fulfilled our prime condition, for even granting that your reply to the eligible young Churchman was tantamount to a rejection, it still only amounts to a half rejection each, which is fifty per cent. below our standard."

She rang the bell. Turple the magnificent ushered the twins out and the next candidate in. She was an ethereal blonde in a simple white frock, and her story was as simple.

"Read this Rondeau," she said. "It will tell you all."

Lillie took the lines. They were headed

THE LOVELY MAY—AN OLD MAID'S PLAINT.

The lovely May at last is here,Long summer days are drawing near,And nights with cloudless moonshine rich;In woodlands green, on waters clear,Soft-couched in fern, or on the mere,Gliding like some white water-witch,Or lunching in a leafy niche,I see my sweet-faced sister dear,The lovely May.Sheis engaged—and her careerIs one of skittles blent with beer,While I, plain sewing left to stitch,Can ne'er expect those pleasures which,At this bright season of the year,The lovely may.

Sheis engaged—and her careerIs one of skittles blent with beer,While I, plain sewing left to stitch,Can ne'er expect those pleasures which,At this bright season of the year,The lovely may.

Lillie looked up interrogatively. "But surelyyouhave nothing to complain of in the way of loveliness?" she said.

"No, of course not.I amthe lovely May. It was my sister who wrote that. She died in June and I found it among her manuscripts. Remorse set in at the thought of Maria stitching while I was otherwise engaged. I disengaged myself at once. What's fair for one is fair for all. Women should combine. While there's one woman who can't get a husband, no man should be allowed to get a wife."

"Hear, hear!" cried Lillie enthusiastically. "Only I am afraid there will always be blacklegs among us who will betray their sex for the sake of a husband."

"Alas, yes," agreed the lovely May. "I fear such was the nature of my sister Maria. She coveted even my first husband."

"What!" gasped the President. "Are you a widow?"

"Certainly! I left off black when I was engaged again, and when I was disengaged I dared not resume it for fear of seeming to mourn myfiancé."

"We cannot have widows in the Old Maids' Club," said Lillie regretfully.

"Then I shall start a new Widows' Club and Old Maids shall have no place in it." And the lovely May sailed out, all smiles and tears.

The newcomer was a most divinely tall and most divinely fair brunette with a brooding, morbid expression. Candidate gave the name of Miss Summerson.

Being invited to make a statement, she said: "I have abandoned the idea of marrying. I have no money. Ergo, I cannot afford to marry a poor man. And I am resolved never to marry a rich one. I want to be loved for myself, not for my want of money. You may stare, but I know what I am talking about. What other attraction have I? Good looks? Plenty of girls with money have that, who would be glad to marry the men I have rejected. In the town I came from I lived with my cousin, who was an heiress. She was far lovelier than I. Yet all the moneyed men were at my feet. They were afraid of being suspected of fortune-hunting and anxious to vindicate their elevation of character. Why should I marry to gratify a man's vanity, his cravings after cheap quixotism?"

"Your attitude on the great question of the age does you infinite credit, but as you have no banking account to put it to, you traverse the regulation requiring a property qualification," said the President.

"Is there no way over the difficulty?"

"I fear not: unless you marry a rich man, and that disqualifies you under another rule." And Miss Summerson passed sadly into the outer darkness, to be replaced by a young lady who gave the name of Nell Lightfoot. She wore a charming hat and a smile like the spreading of sunshine over a crystal pool. "I met a young Scotchman," she said, "at a New Year's dance, and we were favorably impressed by each other. On the fourteenth of the following February I received from him a Valentine, containing a proposal of marriage and a revelation of the degradation of masculine nature. It would seem he had two strings to his bow—the other being a rich widow whomhe had met in a Devonshire lane. Being a Scotchman he had for economy's sake composed a Valentine which with a few slight alterations would do for both of us. Unfortunately for himself he sent me the original draft by mistake and here is his

VERACIOUS VALENTINE.

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