surroundings, a petty
jealousy of others--oh, I hate a common mind as much as anyone in the
world--but to use the word in connection with you is merely an abuse of
language and not to be treated seriously."

She was half perplexed, half comforted.

"But a lady, Mr. Herrick? Am I or am I not--a lady?"

"Well," he said slowly, "that again depends on the use of the word. Mrs.
Swastika, my excellent charwoman, is referred to by her friends as 'the
lady who looks after that queer man in the bungalow'; and when my usual
milkman was taken ill the other day, my modest pint of milk was brought
by a pig-tailed girl who announced, 'I'm the young lady as takes round
Mr. Piggott's milk when he's sick!' So that you see the term 'lady' is
capable of wide interpretation."

"But _am_ I?" Her wistful tone craved for reassurance and Herrick gave
it promptly.

"If by 'lady' you mean a woman who is fit to mix with any one in the
land, yes," he said. "Of course you are."

She gave him a wan little smile, and dried away a few tears with the aid
of his handkerchief.

"I don't know where mine is," she said, half-crying, half-laughing. "I
must have dropped it somewhere."

"Or the Boo-Boos took it." He smiled at her puzzled expression. "Don't
you know those dreadful little people--the people who hide one's pencils
and one's handkerchiefs, put the clock back so that one misses one's
train--or an appointment--and invariably send an organ-grinder outside
one's window when one is hard at work and can't bear a noise!"

"But why do you call them Boo-Boos?" She might have been a child asking
for the explanation of a fairy-tale.

"Well, they aren't Brownies, because _they_ are a good little folk. And
the Pixies, though their tricks are much the same, pursue their
avocations out of doors on moor or hill; so that the only name I could
find for them was just that--Boo-Boos!"

He laughed at her bewildered face.

"Come, Mrs. Rose, don't you ever feel conscious of their teasing
presence? Don't you lose your hair-pins, or your brooches, or whatever
corresponds to our collar-studs? And have you never noticed how a pen
with which you are about to sign an important document, a will or
something of the kind, has changed mysteriously into a pencil--generally
without a point--when you pick it up?"

He had succeeded in his intention. His nonsense had won her to a smile;
and the eyes which a few moments before had looked like those of a
tortured woman