“Oh, well, it’s all in the day’s work,” commented Tommy cheerfully, and sat down as bid.

Five minutes passed, maybe ten. Then Peter returned, accompanied by a large, restful lady, to whom surprise—one felt it instinctively—had always been, and always would remain, an unknown quantity.

Tommy rose.

“That’s the—the article,” explained Peter.

Mrs. Postwhistle compressed her lips and slightly tossed her head. It was the attitude of not ill-natured contempt from which she regarded most human affairs.

“That’s right,” said Mrs. Postwhistle; “I remember seeing ’er there—leastways, it was an ’er right enough then. What ’ave you done with your clothes?”

“They weren’t mine,” explained Tommy. “They were things what Mrs. Hammond had lent me.”

“Is that your own?” asked Mrs. Postwhistle, indicating the blue silk garibaldi.

“Yes.”

“What went with it?”

“Tights. They were too far gone.”

“What made you give up the tumbling business and go to Mrs. ’Ammond’s?”

“It gave me up. Hurt myself.”

“Who were you with last?”

“Martini troupe.”

“And before that?”

“Oh! heaps of ’em.”

“Nobody ever told you whether you was a boy or a girl?”

“Nobody as I’d care to believe. Some of them called me the one, some of them the other. It depended upon what was wanted.”

“How old are you?”

“I dunno.”

Mrs. Postwhistle turned to Peter, who was jingling keys.

“Well, there’s the bed upstairs. It’s for you to decide.”

“What I don’t want to do,” explained Peter, sinking his voice to a confidential whisper, “is to make a fool of myself.”

“That’s always a good rule,” agreed Mrs. Postwhistle, “for those to whom it’s possible.”

“Anyhow,” said Peter, “one night can’t do any harm. To-morrow we can think what’s to be done.”