closet. I guess you've got them going. I hope so."
"Thank you," smiled the girl. "You are very kind. You are here, I understand, because of an unfortunate—er—affair of the heart?"
Mr. Bland smoothed back his black oily hair from his forehead, and smirked. "Oh, now—" he protested.
"Arabella," put in Mr. Magee, "was her name. The beauties of history and mythology hobbled into oblivion at sight of her."
"I'm quick to forget," insisted Mr. Bland.
"That does you no credit, I'm sure," replied the girl severely. "And now, mamma, I think we had better select our rooms—"
She paused. For Elijah Quimby had come in through the dining-room door, and stood gazing at the group before the fire, his face reflecting what Mr. Magee, the novelist, would not have hes itated a moment in terming "mingled emotions".
"Well," drawled Mr. Quimby. He strode into the room. "Mr. Magee," he said, "that letter from Mr. Bentley asked me to let you stay at
