silly. If I had thought you would like it, I should have come
to you first. I didn't want to bore you. But I did think you would pull
me out of a hole."

"What's a hole?" I asked.

"I've paid for a box and I can't go by myself. How can I? Do take me,
there's a dear."

"I'm afraid I'm too dull for haunts of merriment," said I.

She regarded me reproachfully.

"It isn't often I ask you to put yourself out for me. The last time
was when I asked you to be the baby's godfather. And a pretty godfather
you've been. I bet you anything you don't remember the name."

"I do," said I.

"What's it then?"

"It's--it's----" I snapped my fingers. The brat's name had for the
moment gone out of my distracted head. She broke into a laugh and ran
her arm through mine.

"Dorcas."

"Yes, of course--Dorcas. I was going to say so."

"Then you were going to say wrong, for it's Dorothy. Now you _must_
come--for the sake of penance."

"I'll do anything you please!" I cried in desperation, "so long as
you'll not talk to me of my own affairs and will let me sit as glum as
ever I choose."

Then for the first time she manifested some interest in my mood. She put
her head to one side and scanned my face narrowly.

"What's the matter, Simon?"

"I've absorbed too much life the last few days," said I, "and now I've
got indigestion."

"I'm sorry, dear old boy, whatever it is," she said affectionately.
"Come round and dine at 7.30, and I promise not to worry you."

What could I do? I accepted. The alternative to procuring Agatha an
evening's amusement was pacing up and down my bird-cage and beating my
wings (figuratively) and perhaps my head (literally) against the bars.

"It's awfully sweet of you," said Agatha. "Now I'll rush home and
dress."

I accompanied her down the lift to the front door, and attended her to
her carriage.

"I'll do you a good turn some day, dear," she said as she drove off.

I rather flatter myself that Agatha had no reason to complain of my
dulness at dinner. In my converse with her I was faced by various
alternatives. I might lay bare my heart, tell her of my love for Lola
and my bewildered despair at her desertion; this I knew she would no
more understand than if I had proclaimed a mad passion for a young lady
who had waited on me at a tea-shop, or for a cassowary at the Zoo;
even the best and most affectionate of sisters have their sympathetic
limitations. I might have maintained a mysterious and By