cheerful Cockney speech, he stood chalking his cue at a window. "I say,
what's the matter one piecee picnic this week? Pink Pagoda, eh? Mrs.
Gilly's back, you know."

"No, is she?" wheezed the fat Sturgeon, with something like enthusiasm.
"Now we'll brighten up! By Jove, that's good news. That's worth hearing.
Eh, Heywood?"

"Rather!" drawled Rudolph's friend, with an alacrity that seemed half
cynical, half enigmatic.

A quick tread mounted the stairs, and into the room rose Dr. Chantel. He
bowed gracefully to the padre's group, but halted beside the players.
Whatever he said, they forgot their game, and circled the table to
listen. He spoke earnestly, his hands fluttering in nervous gestures.

"Something's up," grumbled Heywood, "when the doctor forgets to pose."

Behind Chantel, as he wheeled, heaved the gray bullet-head and sturdy
shoulders of Gilly.

"Alone?" called the padre. "Why, where's the Mem?"

He came up with evident weariness, but replied cheerfully:--

"She's very sorry, and sent chin-chins all round. But to-night--Her
journey, you know. She's resting.--I hope we've not delayed
the concert?"

"Last man starts it!" Heywood sprang up, flung open a battered piano,