grees to accompany him,
with two provisions: first, that she shall be allowed to pay for
herself; second (because aunt has a new trick of requiring every minute
between Great Titchfield Street and Praed Street to be accounted for),
that Frederick will see her home later to the shop. Gertie thinks a
dose of music will do her as much good as anything.

"I don't claim," he admits, "to have an over and above savage breast,
but I must confess it soothes me at times."

They are in time to take up position near the fountain in the centre of
the promenade, to join in the welcome given to the leading men of the
orchestra, to swell the applause offered to the conductor, to
sing--this being the opening night--the National Anthem. Frederick
takes what he calls seconds; neighbours misunderstand it for an
expression of disloyalty. Then the programme starts. Frederick
Bulpert, new silk hat at back of head, and arms folded, listens to the
"William Tell" overture, Handel's "Largo," and the suite from "Peer
Gynt" with the frown of a man not to be taken in and unwilling to be
influenced by the approbation exhibited by people round him. A song
follows, and he remarks to Gertie that a recitation would be more in
keeping with the style of the entertainment. A violin solo with a
melody that cries softly about love, the love of two people, with
anxieties at first, at the end perfect triumph.

"We'll have a stroll out in the corridor," commands Bulpert. "That
last piece has made me feel somewhat _decollete_."

They gain the outer circle when Gertie has persuaded him to give to her
the task of leading through the crowd; her smile obtains a free way
that his truculent methods fail to obtain.

"I'm going to give up the Post Office," he announces impressively, "and
I'm going in for the stage."

"If you can make money at it, there's no reason why you shouldn't."

Bulpert shows disappointment at the form of this agreement.

"I've come to the conclusion," he goes on, "that I'm not acting fairly
towards the world in concentrating my abilities on the serving out of
stamps and the issuing of postal orders. Besides which, I get no time
for study. Evening before last, at the Finsbury Town Hall, I came as
near to finding my memory fail as ever I've been. I'm burning the
candle at both ends."

"Hope you'll have good luck."

"I shall deserve to have it," he concedes. "I sometimes stand at the
side of the platform, and I see other partie