e
spirits of the children are waiting to go down to earth and be made into
babies? Someone had stuck up a notice at the entrance to the gangway:
'Don't get born. It only means worry.'"

Flossie had her dwelling-place in a second floor bed-sitting-room of a
lodging house in Queen's Square, Bloomsbury; but the drawing-room floor
being for the moment vacant, Flossie had persuaded her landlady to let
her give her party there; it seemed as if fate approved of the idea. The
room was fairly full when Joan arrived. Flossie took her out on the
landing, and closed the door behind them.

"You will be honest with me, won't you?" pleaded Flossie, "because it's
so important, and I don't seem able to think for myself. As they say, no
man can be his own solicitor, can he? Of course I like him, and all
that--very much. And I really believe he loves me. We were children
together when Mummy was alive; and then he had to go abroad; and has only
just come back. Of course, I've got to think of him, too, as he says.
But then, on the other hand, I don't want to make a mistake. That would
be so terrible, for both of us; and of course I am clever; and there was
poor Mummy and Daddy. I'll tell you all about them one day. It was so
awfully sad. Get him into a corner and talk to him. You'll be able to
judge in a moment, you're so wonderful. He's quiet on the outside, but I
think there's depth in him. We must go in now."

She had talked so rapidly Joan felt as if her hat were being blown away.
She had difficulty in recognizing Flossie. All the cocksure pertness had
departed. She seemed just a kid.

Joan promised faithfully; and Flossie, standing on tiptoe, suddenly
kissed her and then bustled her in.

Flossie's young man was standing near the fire talking, or rather
listening, to a bird-like little woman in a short white frock and blue
ribbons. A sombre lady just behind her, whom Joan from the distance took
to be her nurse, turned out to be her secretary, whose duty it was to be
always at hand, prepared to take down any happy idea that might occur to
the bird-like little woman in the course of conversation. The bird-like
little woman was Miss Rose Tolley, a popular novelist. She was
explaining to Flossie's young man, whose name was Sam Halliday, the
reason for her having written "Running Waters," her latest novel.

"It is daring," she admitted. "I must be prepared for opposition. But
it had to be stated."

"I take myse