of cardboard, a mixture of knives and forks, a tin of
pineapple still undefeated, many unanswered letters, a tweed overcoat,
and other things that gave more to utility than beauty.

The fire blazed in the big fireplace and rippled in reflection about the
sloping ceiling. Chairs were set in a comfortable crescent round the
tea-table, and looked as invitingly empty as the Venetian mirror. The
teacups, where each one held the fire's image, showed an opal in the
smooth porcelain. Anticipation brooded upon the apartment, accentuated
by the bell of a neighboring church that rang in a quick monotone. In
the high deal ingle sat three young men smoking long clay pipes; and by
the window facing the river Maurice stood breathing upon the glass in
order to record his love's name in evanescent charactery upon the misted
surface.

At last the monotonous bell ceased its jangling. Big Ben thundered the
hour of four, and the host, throwing up the window, leaned out to a
gray, foggy afternoon.

"Here's Jenny," he cried, drawing back so quickly into the studio that
he banged his head against the frame of the window. The three young men
in the ingle rose and, knocking out their pipes, stood with their backs
to the fire in an attitude of easy expectation. Maurice by this time was
dashing out into the street to welcome Jenny, who was accompanied by
Irene.

"Hurrah!" he said. "I was afraid you might get lost. How are you now?"
he went on, turning to Irene.

"I'm quite all right now," replied the latter.

"She's in the best of pink," said Jenny.

"Pink enough to climb all these stairs?" asked Maurice, laughing.

"I expect so," said Irene.

"Any of the others come yet?" Jenny inquired on the way up.

"Only Castleton and Cunningham and Ronnie Walker."

"I mean any of the girls?"

"No, you're the first--and fairest."

Irene, for all her optimism, was beginning to feel exhausted.

"I say, young Jenny, does your friend here--Maurice--I suppose I can
call him Maurice?"

"Idiot! Of course."

"Does Maurice live much higher?"

"Yes, you may well ask," said Jenny. "What! He's Sky-scraping Bill, if
you only knew."

"We're nearly there," said Maurice apologetically. Outside the door of
the studio they paused.

"What are their unnatural names?" asked Jenny, digging Maurice as she
spoke.

"Cunningham, Castleton and Walker."

"They sound like the American Comedy Trio that got the bird. You
remember, Ireen. Who cares? I shall cal