are occasions when a moralising novelist can merely wring his
hands and leave matters to take their course. For all Hoopdriver
knows or cares he may be locked up the very first thing to-morrow
morning for the rape of the cycle. Then in Bognor, let alone that
melancholy vestige, Bechamel (with whom our dealings are, thank
Goodness! over), there is a Coffee Tavern with a steak Mr.
Hoopdriver ordered, done to a cinder long ago, his American-cloth
parcel in a bedroom, and his own proper bicycle, by way of
guarantee, carefully locked up in the hayloft. To-morrow he will
be a Mystery, and they will be looking for his body along the sea
front. And so far we have never given a glance at the desolate
home in Surbiton, familiar to you no doubt through the medium of
illustrated interviews, where the unhappy stepmother--

That stepmother, it must be explained, is quite well known to
you. That is a little surprise I have prepared for you. She is
'Thomas Plantagenet,' the gifted authoress of that witty and
daring book, "A Soul Untrammelled," and quite an excellent woman
in her way,--only it is such a crooked way. Her real name is
Milton. She is a widow and a charming one, only ten years older
than Jessie, and she is always careful to dedicate her more
daring works to the 'sacred memory of my husband' to show that
there's nothing personal, you know, in the matter. Considering
her literary reputation (she was always speaking of herself as
one I martyred for truth,' because the critics advertised her
written indecorums in column long 'slates'),--considering her
literary reputation, I say, she was one of the most respectable
women it is possible to imagine. She furnished correctly, dressed
correctly, had severe notions of whom she might meet, went to
church, and even at times took the sacrament in some esoteric