to hover about their table
like a stout, presiding goddess, guiding them gently to the best dishes
on the menu, and occasionally putting aside their own selection with a
hasty, "Mon-non; you vill not like that one to-day." She patted Cecilia
in a motherly fashion at parting, and their bill was only about half
what it should have been.

They found a musical comedy, and laughed their way through it--Billy and
Harrison had apparently no cares in the world, and Bob and Cecilia were
caught up in the whirl of their high spirits, so that anything became
a huge joke. The evening flew by on airy wings, when Billy insisted
on taking them to supper after the theatre. Cecilia allowed herself a
fleeting vision of Mrs. Rainham, and then, deciding that she might as
well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, followed gaily. And supper was so
cheery a meal that she forgot all about time--until, just at the end,
she caught sight of the restaurant clock.

"Half-past eleven! Oh, Bobby!"

"Well, if it is--you poor little old Cinderella," said Bob.

But he hurried her away, for all that, amid a chorus of farewells and
efforts, on the part of Billy and Harrison, to arrange further meetings.
They ran to the nearest tube station, and dived into its depths; and,
after being whisked underground for a few minutes, emerged into the cool
night. Cecilia slipped her arm through her brother's as they hurried
along the empty street.

"Now, you keep your nose in the air," Bobby told her. "You aren't
exactly a kid now, and she can't really do anything to you. Oh, by
Jove--I was thinking, in the theatre, she might interfere with our
letters."

"She's quite equal to it," said Cecilia.

"Just what she'd revel in doing. Well, you can easily find out. I'll
write to you to-morrow, and again the next day--just ordinary letters,
with nothing particular in them except an arrangement to meet next
Saturday. If you don't get them you'll know she's getting at the mail
first."

"What shall I do, then?"

"Drop me a line--or, better still, wire to me," said Bob. "Just say,
'Address elsewhere.' Then I'll write to you at Mr. M'Clinton's; the old
solicitor chap in Lincoln's Inn; and you'll have to go there and get the
letters. You know his address, don't you?"

"Oh, yes. I have to write to him every quarter when he sends me my
allowance. You'll explain to him, then, Bob, or he'll simply redirect
your letters here."

"Oh, of course. I want to go and see the old cha