s of the people who have been rehearsing all this
time?" she demanded.

"I'm sorry that they should be out of an engagement, but it is scarcely
my fault. However, I propose to give each of them a month's salary. I
can manage that, I think."

Miss Verepoint rose. "And what about me? What about me, that's what I
want to know. Where do I get off? If you think I'm going to marry you
without your getting a theater and putting up this revue you're jolly
well mistaken."

Roland made a gesture which was intended to convey regret and
resignation. He even contrived to sigh.

"Very well, then," said Miss Verepoint, rightly interpreting this
behavior as his final pronouncement on the situation. "Then everything's
jolly well off."

She swept out of the room, the two authors following in her wake like
porpoises behind a liner. Roland went to his bureau, unlocked it and
took out a bundle of documents. He let his fingers stray lovingly among
the fire insurance policies which energetic Mr. Montague had been at
such pains to secure from so many companies.

"And so," he said softly to himself, "am I."

THE EPISODE OF THE LIVE WEEKLY

Fourth of a Series of Six Stories [First published in _Pictorial
Review_, August 1916]

It was with a start that Roland Bleke realized that the girl at the
other end of the bench was crying. For the last few minutes, as far
as his preoccupation allowed him to notice them at all, he had been
attributing the subdued sniffs to a summer cold, having just recovered
from one himself.

He was embarrassed. He blamed the fate that had led him to this
particular bench, but he wished to give himself up to quiet deliberation
on the question of what on earth he was to do with two hundred and fifty
thousand pounds, to which figure his fortune had now risen.

The sniffs continued. Roland's discomfort increased. Chivalry had always
been his weakness. In the old days, on a hundred and forty pounds
a year, he had had few opportunities of indulging himself in this
direction; but now it seemed to him sometimes that the whole world was
crying out for assistance.

Should he speak to her? He wanted to; but only a few days ago his eyes
had been caught by the placard of a weekly paper bearing the title of
'Squibs,' on which in large letters was the legend "Men Who Speak
to Girls," and he had gathered that the accompanying article was a
denunciation rather than a eulogy of these individuals. On the other
han