red, and the girl--with a toss of her head and a
glance at Parson Jack, who was pretending to tie his boot-lace--accepted
defeat.

"Where did you pick up that puppy?" asked Parson Jack, after watching
the pair up the street.

"What's that to you?"

"Nothing at all; only I'm a judge of wire-haired terriers, and he has a
touch of breed somewhere. Well, if you won't answer that question, I'll
try you with another. Is that Gertrude--or Ada?" He nodded up the
street.

"That's Ada. Gertrude is indoors, trimming a hat. You seem to know a
heap about us."

"Not much; but I'm going to call and find out more if I can. You're
Richard, I suppose?"

"Dick, for short. Ring the bell, if you like, and I'll run round and
open the door. Only don't say I didn't warn you." This sounded like an
absurd echo of the lawyer, and set Parson Jack smiling. "We don't
subscribe to anything, or take any truck in parsons; and the slavey has
a whitlow on her finger, and mother's having fits over the cooking.
But come in, if you want to."

"Thank you, I will."

While Parson Jack ascended to the front door and rang at the bell, Dick
skipped down the area steps, and presently opened to him with a mock
start of surprise. "Beg your pardon," said he, "but I took you for the
rates, or the broker's man." He winked as he ushered in the visitor.
The running click of a sewing-machine sounded above stairs, and up from
the basement floated an aroma of fried onions, and filled the passage.

"First turning to the right!" admonished the boy, and stepping past him,
to the head of the basement stairs, called down: "Mother! I say,
mother, here's a gentleman to see you!"

"Then," came the answer, "tell Gerty to step down and find out what he
wants. I'm busy."

Parson Jack discreetly shut the door, and fell to studying the not
over-clean drawing-room, which was tricked out with muslin draperies,
cheap Japanese fans, photographs--mostly of officers in the uniform of
the Royal Marines--and such artistic trifles as painted tambourines,
sabots, drain-pipes, and milking-stools. In one wicker-chair--the
wicker daubed with royal-red enamel--lay a banjo; in another was curled
a sleeping terrier--indubitable mother of the puppy outside. Near the
door stood a piano with a comic opera score on the music-rest, open at
No. 12, "I'm a Cheery Fusileery--O!" and on its rosewood top an ash-tray
full of cigarette-ends and a shaded lamp the base of which needed