ever, which served as handles
were unhappily missing. Then there was a flap beneath the window
which, when raised, arrested the progress of such smuts as failed to
clear it in their descent to the boards. (Melancholy smothered a laugh
and laid a wet cheek against her victim's.) The smuts were
devilish--the terror by night, the arrow that flieth by day. Anthony
believed in fresh air. Also he believed in cleanliness. His twofold
faith cost his convenience dear. He had begged a dust-sheet from the
housekeeper with which to cover his bed during the day, and regularly,
before retiring, shook an ounce of soot out of his window. The bed, by
the way, was overhung by the wall, which, for some reason best known to
those who built it, deserted the perpendicular for an angle of
forty-five, three inches from Anthony's nose. The candlestick had seen
merrier days: that there might be no doubt about the matter, it said as
much, announcing in so many words that it was "A Present from Margate."
...

Scaramouche Melancholy fairly squirmed with delight. Then she turned
upon Anthony eyes swimming with tenderness, put up consoling lips....
The entrance of Polichinelle, however, cudgel and all, in the shape of
a little white dog, dragging a bough with him, spoiled her game.
Harlequin Sun, too, flashed out of hiding--before his cue, really, for
the shower was not spent.

Scaramouche fled with a snarl.

At Polichinelle's obvious request, Anthony seized the spare end of the
bough, and the two tugged with a will--an agreeable tourney, which was
always eventually settled in the lists of Frolic itself. And, whiles
they strove, Harlequin danced in and out the trees, with magic touch of
bat making the mizzle shimmer and the meadows gleam, and finally, with
rare exuberance, breaking his precious colours overhead, to say the
masque was over and bid the racing winds hustle away the fretful
scenery and clear the stage of sky for his possession.

Master and dog made their way to the inn jubilantly enough.

As he devoured his tea, Lyveden thought again of the girl--more
cheerfully. Indeed, he made bold to decide that she was interested in
him. That such interest sprang from the loins of Curiosity he admitted
readily. Its origin did not matter; the trouble was to keep it alive.

It is obvious that he himself was more than interested. He was, I
suppose, in love. At the moment when he had looked upon her for the
first time his heart had