ground-floor rooms of
his where on the first day of the first term the inextricable Porcher
had arranged his wine. It did not take long to drag Lonsdale out of bed.

"You slack devil, I've not been to bed at all," said Michael.

"More silly ass you," Lonsdale yawned. "Now don't annoy me while I'm
dressing with your impressions of the sunrise." Michael watched him eat
his breakfast, while he slowly and with the troublesome aid of his
eyeglass managed to focus once again the world.

"I was going to tell you something deuced interesting about myself when
you buzzed off this morning. You've heard of Queenie Molyneux--well,
Queenie ..."

"Wait a bit," Michael interrupted. "I haven't heard of Queenie
Molyneux."

"Why, she's in the Pink Quartette."

Michael still looked blank, and Lonsdale adjusting his eyeglass looked
at him in amazement.

"The Pink Quartette in My Mistake."

"Oh, that rotten musical comedy," said Michael. "I haven't seen it."

Lonsdale shook his head in despair, and the monocle tinkled down upon
his plate. When he had wiped it clean of marmalade, he asked Michael in
a compassionate voice if he _never_ went to the theater, and with a sigh
returned to the subject of Queenie.

"It's the most extraordinary piece of luck. A girl that everyone in town
has been running after falls in love with me. Now the question is, what
ought I to do? I can't afford to keep her, and I'm not cad enough to
let somebody else keep her, and use the third latchkey. My dear old
chap, I don't mind telling you I'm in the deuce of a fix."

"Are you very much in love with her?" Michael asked.

"Of course I am. You don't get Queenies chucked at your head like
turnips. Of course I'm frightfully keen."

"Why don't you marry her?" Michael asked.

"What? Marry her? You don't seem to understand who I'm talking about.
Queenie Molyneux! She's in the Pink Quartette in My Mistake."

"Well?"

"Well, I can't marry a chorus-girl."

"Other people have," said Michael.

"Well, yes, but--er--you know, Queenie has rather a reputation. I
shouldn't be the first."

"The problem's too hard for me," said Michael.

In his heart he would have liked to push Manon Lescaut into Lonsdale's
hands and bid him read that for counsel. But he could not help laughing
to himself at the notion of Lonsdale wrestling with the moral of Manon
Lescaut, and if the impulse had ever reached his full consciousness, it
died on the instant.

"Of course, if thi