, took him from Selina, and carried him quickly back to the
hotel. He sat on Selina's lap, recovering very slowly, for nearly an
hour. Then he got to his toys.

That afternoon Sir Tancred made a search, and discovered a staircase
leading up to the roof. It was somewhat besprent with blacks; but
there the child could take an airing, unterrified, in a solitude _a
trois_, and in a very fresh air, when a south or west wind blew.

By the afternoon of the next day he had grown used to Sir Tancred, and,
when he was tired of his silent play with his toys, would sit on his
knee in perfect content. The skin of his face was almost white; now
only his knees were really grimy.

On the evening of the fourth day, as he was having his supper, eating
it with much less of the ravenous fervour of a wolf in winter-time, Sir
Tancred distinctly saw him smile; it was very faint, but it was an
undoubted smile.

Three mornings later Sir Tancred was lying awake, when his door was
pushed wider open, and Tinker stole in:

"Hallo, Tinker! Come here! You'll catch cold! What are you looking
for?" said Sir Tancred.

"Gee-gee," said Tinker.

"Come here, and get warm."

After a little thought Tinker accepted the invitation, and Sir Tancred
lifted him into bed. He huddled up to Sir Tancred, and presently found
that his unshaven chin was rough, and stroked it with some wonder.

"You _are_ a funny little Tinker," said Sir Tancred fondly.

"Mine Tinker. Mine Tinker!" said the child with a faint crow.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE TRAINING OF TINKER

Sir Tancred had a very sound theory that the air of London is as
healthy an air as can be breathed in England; but for all that Tinker
enjoyed the best quality of that air, on the roof of the Hotel Cecil,
varied by the ozone of Brighton and the air of many parts of the
country, it was many a long day before he showed a real tendency
towards sturdiness, and outgrew the effects of his privations. He was
long, too, outgrowing his terror of strangers.

Meanwhile Sir Tancred was trying to slake his intolerable thirst for
distraction, distraction from his memories and regrets, in that section
of London Society which, let us hope, cannot see itself for its own
brilliancy, or hear itself for its own noise, that curious collection
of Princes and millionaires, aristocrats and tradesmen, great ladies
and upper Bohemians, about which the only fitting thing is its title,
found for it by some inspired j