voice on the landing called to them to come up-stairs. Without
them it was impossible, she said, to get Laura off.

The whole house was helping, in a passionate publicity; for every one in
it loved Laura. Mr. Baxter, the landlord, was on the staircase, bringing
Laura's boots. The maid of all work was leaning out of the window on the
landing, brushing Laura's skirt. A tall girl was standing by the table
in the sitting-room. She had a lean, hectic face, and prominent blue
eyes under masses of light hair. She was Addy Ranger, the type-writer on
the ground-floor, who had come up from her typewriting to see what she
could do. She was sewing buttons on Laura's blouse while Jane brought
pressure upon Laura. "Of course you're going," Jane was saying. "It's
not as if you had a birthday every day."

For Laura still sat at her writing-table, labouring over a paragraph,
white lipped and heavy eyed. Shuffling all over the room and round about
her was Mr. Gunning. He was pouring out the trouble that had oppressed
him for the last four years.

"She won't stop scribbling. It's scribble--scribble--scribble all day
long. If I didn't lie awake to stop her she'd be at it all night. I've
caught her--in her nightgown. She'll get out of her bed to do it."

"Papa, dear, you know Miss Lempriere and Mr. Prothero?"

His mind adjusted itself instantly to its vision of them. He bowed to
each. He was the soul of courtesy and hospitality, and they were his
guests; they had come to luncheon.

"Lolly, my dear, have you ordered luncheon?--You must tell Mrs. Baxter
to give us a salmon mayonnaise, and a salad and lamb cutlets in aspic.
And, Lolly! Tell her to put a bottle of champagne in ice."

For in his blessed state, among the fragments of old splendours that
still clung to him, Mr. Gunning had preserved indestructibly his sense
of power to offer his friends a bottle of champagne on a suitable
occasion, and every occasion now ranked with him as suitable.

"Yes, darling," said Laura, and dashed down a line of her paragraph.

He shuffled feebly toward the door. "I have to see to everything
myself," he said. "That child there has no more idea how to order a
luncheon than the cat. There should be," he reverted, "lamb cutlets in
aspic. I must see to it myself."

He wandered out of the room and in again, driven, by his dream.

"Oh," cried Laura, "somebody else must have my birthday. _I_ can't have
it. I must sit tight and finish my paragraph."