e sunlight, its right shin rubbing itself vigorously against
its left calf.

"It's absurd," he said at last; "I feel as if I've known you for years.
And, anyway, I'm certain I've seen you before somewhere."

"Did you ever go to _The Seaside Girl_?" she asked eagerly.

"Often."

"Do you remember the Spanish princess who came on at the beginning of
the Second Act and said, 'Wow-wow!' to the Mayor?"

"Why, of course! And you had your photograph in _The Sketch_, _The
Tatler_, _The Bystander_, and _The Sporting and Dramatic_ all in the
same week?"

The girl nodded happily. "Yes, I'm Marie Huguenot!" she said.

"And I'm Jack Summers; so now we know each other." He took her hand.
"Marie," he said, "ever since I have mended your bicycle--I mean, ever
since I have known you, I have loved you. Will you marry me?"

"Jack!" she cooed. "You did say 'Jack,' didn't you?"

"Bless you, Marie. We shall be very poor, dear. Will you mind?"

"Not with you, Jack. At least, not if you mean what _I_ mean by 'very
poor.'"

"Two thousand a year."

"Yes, that's about what I meant."

Jack took her in his arms.

"And Mary Huggins can go and marry the Pope," he said, with a smile.

With a look of alarm in her eyes she pushed him suddenly away from her.
There was a crash as his foot went through the front wheel of the
bicycle.

"Mary Huggins?" she cried.

"Yes, I was left a fortune on condition that I married a person called
Mary Huggins. Absurd! As though----"

"How much?"

"Oh, quite a lot if it wasn't for these confounded death duties. Five
million pounds. You see----"

"Jack, Jack!" cried the girl. "Don't you understand? _I_ am Mary
Huggins."

He looked at her in amazement.

"You said your name was Marie Huguenot," he said slowly.

"My stage name, dear. Naturally I couldn't--I mean, one must--you know
how particular managers are. When father died and I had to go on the
stage for a living----"

"Marie, my darling!"

Mary rose and picked up her bicycle. The air had gone out of the back
wheel again, and there were four spokes broken, but she did not heed it.

"You must write to your lawyer to-night," she said. "_Won't_ he be
surprised?"

But, being a great reader of the magazines, he wasn't.

THE STATESMAN

On a certain night in the middle of the season all London was gathered
in Lady Marchpane's drawing-room; all London, that is, which was worth
knowing--a qualification which accounted for the absence