distinctions her clever father
bequeathed her as well as her laugh and her wit, her blue eyes and her
curling hair.

Bulstrode stayed on in the dingy delightful room, until at an order of
his hostess, luncheon was served them on a small table, and over the
good things of an amazingly well-understood buffet and a bottle of
wine, they were left alone. Bulstrode stayed on until the fog in the
corners darkened to the blackest of ugly webs and choked the fire and
clutched the candles' slender throats as if to suffocate the flame.
Tea was served and put away and the period known as _entre chien et
loup_ at length stole up Portman Square alongside the fog and found
Bulstrode still staying on....

Later, much later, when the lamps in the street and the square found
themselves, with no visible transition, lighting night-time as they had
lighted day--when the hansoms began to swing the early diners along to
their destinations, a hansom drew up before No. ----, Portman Square.

It was at the hour soft-footed London had ceased to roll its rubber
tires down the little street, and only an occasional cab slipped by
unheard. But a small hand cart on which a piano organ was installed
wheeled by No. ----, Portman Square, and stopped directly under the
Sorghams' window and a man began to sing:

"I'll sing thee songs of Araby
And tales of old Cashmere."

The creature was singing for his living, for his supper doubtless,
certainly for his breakfast, but he chanced to possess a remarkable
gift and he evidently loved his trade. The silence--wherein all London
appeared to listen, the quiet wherein the magically suspended room had
swung and swung until even Bulstrode's clear mind and good sense began
fatally to blur and swing with the pendulant room--was broken into by
the song.

And as Bulstrode moved and turned away his eyes from the woman's lovely
face, she sighed and covered her own eyes with her hands. The small
coffee table had been taken away. Mrs. Falconer was in a low chair
leaning forwards, her hands lying loosely in her lap. The distance
between the two his hand could have bridged in one gesture. The voice
of the street singer was superb, liquid and sweet. He sang his ballad
well.

"I'll sing thee songs of Araby
And tales of old Cashmere."

Mrs. Falconer's guest rose.

"You'll come down for Christmas," he said, "and I'll meet you as we
have arranged, to-morrow."

"Jimmy," she protested, "it's only t