se statements were, as he felt even in making them, not only
gratuitous, but utterly unconvincing, but he had arrived at that
condition in which a man discovers with terror the unsuspected amount of
mendacity latent in his system.

"I should have thought there were other ways of supporting invalid
aunts," remarked Mrs. Futvoye. "What is this young lady's name?"

"Tinkler," said Horace, on the spur of the moment. "Miss Clementine
Tinkler."

"But surely she is a foreigner?"

"Mademoiselle, I ought to have said. And Tinkla--with an 'a,' you know.
I believe her mother was of Arabian extraction--but I really don't
know," explained Horace, conscious that Sylvia had withdrawn her hand
from his, and was regarding him with covert anxiety.

"I really _must_ put a stop to this," he thought.

"You're getting bored by all this, darling," he said aloud; "so am I.
I'll tell them to go." And he rose and held out his hand as a sign that
the dance should cease.

It ceased at once; but, to his unspeakable horror, the dancer crossed
the floor with a swift jingling rush, and sank in a gauzy heap at his
feet, seizing his hand in both hers and covering it with kisses, while
she murmured speeches in some tongue unknown to him.

"Is this a usual feature in Miss Tinkla's entertainments, may I ask?"
said Mrs. Futvoye, bristling with not unnatural indignation.

"I really don't know," said the unhappy Horace; "I can't make out what
she's saying."

"If I understand her rightly," said the Professor, "she is addressing
you as the 'light of her eyes and the vital spirit of her heart.'"

"Oh!" said Horace, "she's quite mistaken, you know. It--it's the
emotional artist temperament--they don't _mean_ anything by it. My--my
dear young lady," he added, "you've danced most delightfully, and I'm
sure we're all most deeply indebted to you; but we won't detain you any
longer. Professor," he added, as she made no offer to rise, "_will_ you
kindly explain to them in Arabic that I should be obliged by their going
at once?"

The Professor said a few words, which had the desired effect. The girl
gave a little scream and scudded through the archway, and the musicians
seized their instruments and scuttled after her.

"I am so sorry," said Horace, whose evening seemed to him to have been
chiefly spent in apologies; "it's not at all the kind of entertainment
one would expect from a place like Whiteley's."

"By no means," agreed the Professor; "but I und