“It’s dated from Marylebone Road, and yesterday afternoon she did leave her chinchilla in my rooms, which makes me think it really must be from Mary Ramsbotham. Otherwise I should have my doubts,” added Miss Fossett, as she folded up the letter and replaced it in her bag.

“Id is love!” was the explanation of Dr. William Smith, his round, red face illuminated with poetic ecstasy. “Love has gone to her—has dransformed her once again into the leedle maid.”

“Love,” retorted Susan Fossett, “doesn’t transform an intelligent, educated woman into a person who writes a letter all in jerks, underlines every other word, spells antiquarian with an ‘e,’ and Burcott’s name, whom she has known for the last eight years, with only one ‘t.’ The woman has gone stark, staring mad!”

“We must wait until we have seen him,” was Peter’s judicious view. “I should be so glad to think that the dear lady was happy.”

“So should I,” added Miss Fossett drily.

“One of the most sensible women I have ever met,” commented William Clodd. “Lucky man, whoever he is. Half wish I’d thought of it myself.”

“I am not saying that he isn’t,” retorted Miss Fossett. “It isn’t him I’m worrying about.”

“I preesume you mean ‘he,”’ suggested the Wee Laddie. “The verb ‘to be’——”

“For goodness’ sake,” suggested Miss Fossett to Tommy, “give that man something to eat or drink. That’s the worst of people who take up grammar late in life. Like all converts, they become fanatical.”

“She’s a ripping good sort, is Mary Ramsbotham,” exclaimed Grindley junior, printer and publisher of Good Humour. “The marvel to me is that no man hitherto has ever had the sense to want her.”

“Oh, you men!” cried Miss Fossett. “A pretty face and an empty head is all you want.”

“Must they always go together?” laughed Mrs. Grindley junior, née Helvetia Appleyard.

“Exceptions prove the rule,” grunted Miss Fossett.

“What a happy saying that is,” smiled Mrs. Grindley junior. “I wonder sometimes how conversation was ever carried on before it was invented.”

“De man who would fall in love wid our dear frent Mary,” thought Dr. Smith, “he must be quite egsceptional.”

“You needn’t talk about her as if she was a monster—I mean were,” corrected herself Miss Fossett, with a hasty glance towards the Wee Laddie. “There isn’t a man I know that’s worthy of her.”

“I mean,” explained the doctor, “dat he must be a man of character—of brain. Id is de noble man dat is attracted by de noble woman.”

“By the chorus-girl more often,” suggested Miss Fossett.

“We must hope for the best,” counselled Peter. “I cannot believe that a clever, capable woman like Mary Ramsbotham would make a fool of herself.”

“From what I have seen,” replied Miss Fossett, “it’s just the clever people—as regards this particular matter—who do make fools of themselves.”

Unfortunately Miss Fossett’s judgment proved to be correct. On being introduced a fortnight later to Miss Ramsbotham’s fiancé, the impulse of Bohemia was to exclaim, “Great Scott! Whatever in the name of——” Then on catching sight of Miss Ramsbotham’s transfigured face and trembling hands Bohemia