per," said Luke. "Won't it be jolly to
dine in the kitchen with Dot and Dash?"

"Ellen will sit in the garden while we are at dinner. Kate will wait
on us as usual. I am sorry to say that a workman spilt a pail of
whitewash in your room. Most of it went over your books. After dinner
we will sit in the den."

"Mabel," said Luke, "when I told you of the suffering that would
happen to me in consequence of Effie having the illegitimate child,
which she never did, you said that it was all impossible. Part of it
has come true. They don't want me to go to the business any more, and
they've said so."

"Have they?" said Mabel. "Of course I knew they would. I've been
expecting it for some time past. You see, you're not fitted for
business. I don't know that you're particularly fitted for anything.
Well, when you talked to me about that Effie nonsense, I told you I'd
arrange a little martyrdom for you if I could. Haven't I done it?"

"You have. In the interest of my sanity----"

"In the interests of your what?"

"In the interests of my sanity I shall go to Brighton for the
week-end."

"Do," said Mabel. "You're terribly in the way here. It's about the
first sensible idea you've had for this last year."

By half-past ten next morning he was on the platform at Victoria
station. Would Jona be there?

Apparently not. He caught a distant glimpse of Lord Tyburn, but it was
not with him that he was proposing to elope. Besides, Tyburn was
accompanied by a somewhat highly painted and decorated young lady.
Luke waited till the last moment, and waited in vain. He stepped into
the train just as it was moving off.

2

At this point we will ask our Mr. Alfred Jingle to oblige again.

"Tell you what," he said to his artist friend. "I was wrong about
Sharper again. I thought he'd reached the limit of human mess and
martyrdom. He hadn't. He'd not got within a street of it. He's there
now. Right up to the limit and leaning over the edge.

"Down at Brighton this week-end with my old missus. Sitting out on
the pier. Sunday morning. Listening to the band. Overture to 'William
Tell.' Always is. Whenever I strike a band, it's 'William Tell' or
'Zampa.' Every time.

"Suddenly the missus says to me, 'Who's that old chap over there with
a face like a turnip?'

"I looked up. It was Luke Sharper. Looking ghastly. His hair was grey.
His face was grey. Even his flannel trousers were grey. All grey and
worn. I don't mean the trousers parti