"Well what about this theatre," demanded Mr. Longcord of his friend
and partner; "do you want to go or don't you?" Mr. Longcord was
feeling irritable.

"Goth the ticketh--may ath well," thought Isidore.

"Damn stupid piece, I'm told."

"Motht of them thupid, more or leth. Pity to wathte the ticketh,"
argued Isidore, and the pair went out.

"Are you staying long in London?" asked Miss Kite, raising her
practised eyes towards the stranger.

"Not long," answered the stranger. "At least I do not know. It
depends."

An unusual quiet had invaded the drawing-room of Forty-eight
Bloomsbury Square, generally noisy with strident voices about this
hour. The Colonel remained engrossed in his paper. Mrs. Devine sat
with her plump white hands folded on her lap, whether asleep or not it
was impossible to say. The lady who was cousin to a baronet had
shifted her chair beneath the gasolier, her eyes bent on her
everlasting crochet work. The languid Miss Devine had crossed to the
piano, where she sat fingering softly the tuneless keys, her back to
the cold barely-furnished room.

"Sit down!" commanded saucily Miss Kite, indicating with her fan the
vacant seat beside her. "Tell me about yourself. You interest me."
Miss Kite adopted a pretty authoritative air towards all