will be
against her."

"You think--you think that'll comfort her?" suggested Peter Hope.

"It's the only way, and it is really wonderfully simple. We never
mention the aristocracy now--it would be like talking shop. We just
enjoy ourselves. You, by the way, I met in connection with the movement
for rational dress. You are a bit of a crank, fond of frequenting
Bohemian circles."

"I am risking something, I know," continued Joey; "but it's worth it. I
couldn't have existed much longer. We go slowly, and are very careful.
Jack is Lord Mount-Primrose, who has taken up with anti-vaccination and
who never goes out into Society. Somerville is Sir Francis Baldwin, the
great authority on centipedes. The Wee Laddie is coming next week as
Lord Garrick, who married that dancing-girl, Prissy Something, and
started a furniture shop in Bond Street. I had some difficulty at first.
She wanted to send out paragraphs, but I explained that was only done by
vulgar persons--that when the nobility came to you as friends, it was
considered bad taste. She is a dear girl, as I have always told you,
with only one fault. A woman easier to deceive one could not wish for. I
don't myself see why the truth ever need come out--provided we keep our
heads."

"Seems to me you've lost them already," commented Peter; "you're
overdoing it."

"The more of us the better," explained Joey; "we help each other.
Besides, I particularly want you in it. There's a sort of superior
Pickwickian atmosphere surrounding you that disarms suspicion."

"You leave me out of it," growled Peter.

"See here," laughed Joey; "you come as the Duke of Warrington, and bring
Tommy with you, and I'll write your City article."

"For how long?" snapped Peter. Incorruptible City editors are not easily
picked up.

"Oh, well, for as long as you like."

"On that understanding," agreed Peter, "I'm willing to make a fool of
myself in your company."

"You'll soon get used to it," Joey told him; "eight o'clock, then, on
Sunday; plain evening dress. If you like to wear a bit of red ribbon in
your buttonhole, why, do so. You can get it at Evans', in Covent
Garden."

"And Tommy is the Lady--"

"Adelaide. Let her have a taste for literature, then she needn't wear
gloves. I know she hates them." Joey turned to go.

"Am I married?" asked Peter.

Joey paused. "I should avoid all reference to your matrimonial affairs
if I were you," was Joey's advice. "You didn