be the death of me; positively fifty of them if there is one.
Really at my time of life it is most unreasonable; he ought to have a
lift put in, I will make it my business to see he doesn't live up here
in the clouds any longer, whether he always wants to see Lal or whether
he doesn't."

The Writer grinned at the children, and Ridgwell and Christine gave a
faint chuckle by way of an answer. At last the door was flung open and
the pleasantest-faced old gentleman it would be possible to find
anywhere, with round pink cheeks, merry eyes, a snowy white upturned
moustache and white hair to match, peering through big gold-rimmed
spectacles like a cheerful night-owl, stood in the doorway.

Thereupon the three people inside the room bobbed down in a most
profound curtesy, and there was a perfectly timed and simultaneous
chorus from three voices, "Welcome, Sir Simon Gold, Lord Mayor of
London."

"Bless my soul," said the Lord Mayor, "very impressive, upon my word;
but as His Majesty the King has only knighted me twenty minutes ago,
how on earth did you come to hear of it?"

"Magic," said the Writer. "Besides, Lal prophesied the event."

"Who are the children?" asked the Lord Mayor.

"Friends of Lal's and myself," replied the Writer, "and very anxious to
see you in your robes."

"They are all in this bag," vouchsafed the Mayor, "and it may be vanity
upon my part, but I brought them up on purpose to stand in front of the
window so that Lal could have a good look at them and see the effect of
his own handiwork. And now, you rascal," demanded the Lord Mayor of
the Writer as he helped himself to a comfortable chair, "what excuses
have you got to give me for not coming near either Mum or myself for
ages, and for taking up your abode in this absurdly high flat which is
as bad as mounting the Monument?"

"I have my excuses all labelled and wrapped up, Dad, and you and Mum
must accept them when you have looked at them."

Thereupon the Writer fished out of the mysterious odd-fashioned
cupboard two packets very neatly done up, and placed them in the hands
of genial old Sir Simon.

The old gentleman opened the first packet with evident pleasure; it was
a well-bound book fresh from the printer's press.

"Open it, Dad, and see whom it is dedicated to," suggested the Writer;
"you will find it upon the first page."

"Beautiful," murmured the old gentleman, whilst his hands trembled
slightly as he held the book and read out, "D