Now, if Reginald had been a believer in fairies he would hardly have
started as much as he did when, almost as the words escaped his lips,
the door opened, and a female marched into the room.

A little prim female it was, with stiff curls down on her forehead and a
very sharp nose and very thin lips and fidgety fingers that seemed not
to know whether to cling to one another for support or fly at the
countenance of somebody else.

This formidable visitor spared Reginald the trouble of inquiring to what
fortunate circumstance he was indebted for the honour of so unlooked-for
a visit.

"Now, sir!" said she, panting a little, after her ascent of the stairs,
but very emphatic, all the same.

The observation was not one which left much scope for argument, and
Reginald did not exactly know what to reply. At last, however, he
summoned up resolution enough to say politely,--

"Now, madam, can I be of any service?"

Inoffensive as the observation was, it had the effect of greatly
irritating the lady.

"None of your sauce, young gentleman," said she, putting down her bag
and umbrella, and folding her arms defiantly. "I've not come here to
take any of your impertinence."

Reginald's impertinence! He had never been rude to a lady in all his
life except once, and the penance he had paid for that sin had been
bitter enough, as the reader can testify.

"You needn't pretend not to know what I've come here for," continued the
lady, taking a hasty glance round the room, as if mentally calculating
from what door or window her victim would be most likely to attempt to
escape.

"Perhaps she's Love's mother!" gasped Reginald, to himself.--"Oh, but
what a Venus!"

This classical reflection he prudently kept to himself, and waited for
his visitor to explain her errand further.

"You know who I am," she said, walking up to him.

"No, indeed," said Reginald, hardly liking to retreat, but not quite
comfortable to be standing still. "Unless--unless your name is Love."

"Love!" screamed the outraged "Venus."

"I'll Love you, young gentleman, before I've done with you. Love,
indeed, you impudent sauce-box, you!"

"I beg your pardon," began Reginald.

"Love, indeed! I'd like to scratch you, so I would!" cried the lady,
with a gesture so ominously like suiting the action to the word, that
Reginald fairly deserted his post and retreated two full paces.

This was getting critical. Either the lady was mad, or she had mistake