nds and cried for mercy.

'He is always too hot,' she said, suddenly desisting and sitting down
again. 'He always was, even when he was a baby.' She was now at work on
a very complicated salad. 'But then,' she went on, speaking between
mouthfuls, 'I used to lay him down in the middle of my big bed, with
nothing on but his little shirt, and he would kick and crow until he
was quite cool.'

Again Margaret bit her lip, but this time it was of no use, and after a
conscientious effort to be quiet she broke into irrepressible laughter.
In a moment Lushington laughed too, and presently he felt quite cool
and comfortable again, feeling that after all he had been ridiculous
only when he was a baby.

'We used to call him Tommy,' said Madame Bonanni, putting away her
plate and laying her knife and fork upon it crosswise. 'Poor little
Tommy! How long ago that was! After his father died I changed his name,
you know, and then it seemed as if little Tommy were dead too.'

There was visible moisture in the big dark eyes for an instant.
Margaret felt sorry for the strange, contradictory creature, half
child, half genius, and all mother.

'My husband's name was Goodyear,' continued the prima donna
thoughtfully. 'You will find it in all biographies of me.'

'Goodyear,' Margaret repeated, looking at Lushington. 'What a nice
name! I like it.'

'You understand,' Madame Bonanni went on, explaining. '"Goodyear,"
"buon anno," "bonanno," "Bonanni"; that is how it is made up. It's a
good name for the stage, is it not?'

'Yes. But why did you change it at all for your son?'

Madame Bonanni shrugged her large shoulders, glanced furtively at
Lushington, and then looked at Margaret.

'It was better,' she said. 'Fruit, Angelo!'

'Can I be of any use to you in getting off, mother?' asked Lushington.

Margaret felt that she had made another mistake, and looked at her
plate.

'No, my angel,' said Madame Bonanni, answering her son's question, and
eating hothouse grapes; 'you cannot help me in the least, my sweet. I
know you would if you could, dear child! But you will come and dine
with me quietly at the Carlton on Sunday at half-past eight, just you
and I. I promise you that no one shall be there, not even
Logotheti--though you do not mind him so much.'

'Not in the least,' Lushington answered, with a smile which Margaret
thought a little contemptuous. 'All the same, I would much rather be
alone with you.'

'Do you wonder that I love