imon, as he stared somewhat wildly out of the
window; "what's that?"

"What's what?" inquired the Writer inconsequently, from his easy-chair
at the other end of the room.

Sir Simon rubbed his eyes, then he looked out of the window again, then
he rubbed his spectacles in case by any chance they were deceiving him.

"My dear boy," faltered Sir Simon, "is that--is'
that--ahem!--Creme-de-Menthe you gave me exceptionally strong by any
chance?"

"No, same as it always is, Dad; why?"

"Then I'm not mistaken, Lal's eyes have gone a _bright_ green, the same
colour as the liqueur in that bottle. Green," shouted Sir Simon, "and
they are blazing like fireworks. Look! look at them."

The Writer rushed across the room to the window.

There could be no doubt about it that the calm eyes of the
Pleasant-Faced Lion, which were wont to gaze haughtily upon the more
commonplace things around him in Trafalgar Square, had suddenly changed
to the colour of living emeralds, and were terrible to behold.

"Great Scott!" muttered the astonished Writer, "I have never seen him
look like that. He's angry about something."

"He's more than angry--he's furious," suggested the Lord Mayor
nervously. "What on earth can be the reason of it? Why, yes, I see.
Why, how dare she!" spluttered Sir Simon. "There's a woman dancing,
positively waltzing round the Square with his wreath of water-lilies I
put there for him! I'll stop her, she must bring it back at once."

Without another word, Sir Simon rushed for the door and downstairs with
the most surprising speed, followed closely by the Writer, who
considered his old friend ought not to be deserted upon such a mission.

"Ho! hi! stop thief," puffed the Lord Mayor, as he toiled three parts
round Trafalgar Square after the corybantic lady, who was dancing on
ahead with the huge wreath held with both arms, swaying over her, as
she danced a sort of bacchanal in front of the enraged Sir Simon.

"Hi!" panted the Lord Mayor, as after frantic efforts he came
alongside. "Woman, bring that wreath back at once; how dare you take
it away!"

"Oh, go on, ole dear," retorted the lady good-humouredly; "ain't it
making me much 'appier than an old lion? Why, bless you, it put me in
mind of the days when I used to play Alice in Pantomimes. Lead, I used
to play, once, yes, s'welp me if I wasn't. What 'arm am I a-doing?
Oh, look 'ere, if you're going to get snuffy, 'ere, take your ole
wreath. I'm blowed