rgotten to turn the handle, apologized profusely, and wound up very
gingerly till the number "2" approached. "Now then," he said, looking
up ... and found himself alone.

* * * * *

As I write this in London I have Simpson's album in front of me. Should
you ever do us the honour of dining with us (as I hope you will), and
(which seems impossible) should there ever come a moment when the
conversation runs low, and you are revolving in your mind whether it is
worth while asking us if we have been to any theatres lately, then I
shall produce the album, and you will be left in no doubt that we are
just back from the Riviera. You will see oranges and lemons and olives
and cactuses and palms; blue sky (if you have enough imagination) and
still bluer sea; picturesque villas, curious effects of rocks, distant
backgrounds of mountain ... and on the last page the clever kindly face
of Simpson.

The whole affair will probably bore you to tears.

But with Myra and me the case of course is different. We find these
things, as Simpson said, very jolly to look back on.

II. MEN OF LETTERS

MEN OF LETTERS

JOHN PENQUARTO

A TALE OF LITERARY LIFE IN LONDON

(_Modelled on the hundred best Authors_.)

I

John Penquarto looked round his diminutive bed-sitting-room with a
feeling of excitement not unmixed with awe. So this was London! The new
life had begun. With a beating heart he unpacked his bag and set out his
simple belongings.

First his books, his treasured books; where should he put them? It was
comforting to think that, wherever they stood, they would be within reach
of his hand as he lay in bed. He placed them on the window-sill and read
their titles again reverently: "Half-Hours with our Water-Beetles," "The
Fretworker's Companion" and "Strenuous Days in Simla." He owed everything
to them. And what an air they gave the room!

But not such an air as was given by his other treasure--the photograph of
Mary.

Mary! He had only met her once, and that was twenty years ago, at his
native Polwollop. He had gone to the big house with a message for Mr.
Trevena, her ladyship's butler: "Mother's respects, and she has found the
other shirt-front and will send it up as soon as it is dry." He had often
taken a similar message, for Mrs. Penquarto did the washing for the upper
servants at the Hall, but somehow he had known that to-day was going to
be different.

There, just inside the