grey-bearded gentleman, and floated towards him.
"It is you!" said the darling vision, and the next moment his hands—both hands—were warmly clasped by little white-gloved ones, and he was standing looking into the eyes of the Girl.
"I knew I should see you somewhere—this continent is so tiny," she said. "Come right along and be introduced to Papa—that's him over there."
"I—I can't," he answered, in an agony. "I—my pocket's been picked—"
"Do tell!" said the Girl, laughing; "but Papa doesn't want tipping—he's got all he wants—come right along."
"I can't," he said, hoarse with the misery of the degrading confession; "it wasn't my money—it was my shoes. I came up in boots, brown boots; distant suburb; train; my shoes were in my overcoat pocket—I meant to change in the cab. I must have dropped them or they were taken out. And here I am in these things." He looked down at his bright brown boots. "And all the shops are shut—and my whole
