, and
suddenly cried out upon his own bad memory. It appeared there was a
concert at the Albert Hall, where "the most popular and handsome pair in
England" (the inverted commas were in the doctor's sneer) were being
welcomed on their return from the ends of the earth. He had intended
going to hear what they could do; but Phillida should go instead; she was
not past the ballad stage.

And Phillida rose submissively, with unreal thanks which could not conceal
her recognition of the impromptu pretext for getting rid of her; her uncle
called a taxicab, and with harsh hilarity turned her off the premises in
the frock she had been wearing all day.

"And now," said he, returning with a scowl, "what the devil were you two
talking about while my back was turned?"

"Yesterday," replied Pocket, more than ready for him, though his heart
beat fast.

"What about yesterday?"

"Our scuffle in the other room."

"Is that all?"

"No--I found out something; she didn't tell me." "What did you find out?"

"That you let her think me mad!" cried Pocket, in monstrous earnest. He
might have laughed at himself, could he have seen his own reproachful
face. But he could have killed Baumgartner for laughing at him; it did
not occur to him that the laugh was partly one of pure relief.

"Why, my young fellow, how else can I account for you?"

"You said she would think I was a patient."

"Exactly! A mental case."

"You had no business to make me out mad," persisted Pocket, with dogged
valour.

"Pardon me! I had all the business in the world; and I beg that you'll
continue to foster the illusion as thoroughly as you did yesterday when I
was out. It's no good shaking your head at me; listen to reason,"
continued Baumgartner, with an adroit change of tone. "And try, my good
young fellow, do try to think of somebody besides yourself; have some
consideration for my niece, if you have none for me."

Pocket was mystified, but still more incensed; for he felt himself being
again put gently but clearly in the wrong.

"And I should like to know," he cried, "what good it does her to think
she's associating with a lunatic?"

"She would probably prefer the idea to that of a murderer," was the suave
reply. "I speak only of ideas; otherwise I should not make use of such an
expression, even in jest. It's as ugly as it's ridiculous in your case.
Yet you heard for yourself that others are applying the horrid term in all
sobriety."

"I hea