“Brown!  Nonsense!  Didn’t you think they were black?”

“I did not observe them,” returned the grave personage he addressed, indifferently.  “The boy had a narrow escape.  I must say good morning,” he added.

“Stop a bit,” cried the Colonel.  “I must see you again before you leave town.  Dine with me to-morrow at the Junior.  And, Bertie—­”

“Thanks, no, I am engaged.”  He said good-by and walked on.

“Queer fellow that,” said the Colonel, looking after him.  “He got into some money troubles in India, left the army, and got converted.  Now he is not exactly a Salvation soldier, but something of the kind.  He’ll be at you one of the days for a subscription to convert the crossing sweepers or some such undertaking.  But you’ll dine with me to-morrow.  I’ll tell you all the Clayshire gossip.”

“Thank you, I shall be very happy.”

“Then good-by for the present, I am engaged to lunch to meet one of the prettiest little widows you ever saw in your life, but she has no cash.  Here, hansom,” calling to the driver of a cab which was passing slowly.  “I am a little late.”  He jumped in and drove off.

His friend, with a slight grave smile, continued his walk to the Alexandria Hotel, the portals of which received him.

Meantime the hero of the cab incident sat very demurely by his young aunt, as the omnibus rolled slowly up Park Lane, occasionally stealing inquisitive glances at her face.

“You have been a very naughty boy, Cecil!” she exclaimed as her eyes met his.  “How could I have gone home to mamma if I had been obliged to leave you behind?”

“But you needn’t, you know; you could have tied me up in a bundle and taken me back.  Mamma would have known it wasn’t your fault.”

“I am not so sure of that, and you have made poor Charlie cry,”—­drawing the younger boy to her side.

“Charlie is just a baby,” contemptuously.

“He is a better boy than you are.”  Silence.

“Auntie, do you think the gentleman who pulled me back was the old gentleman’s son?”

“No, I do not think he was.”

“Why don’t you, auntie?”

“I can hardly say why.”

“I have seen that gentleman—­the old gentleman—­in Kensington Gardens,” said little Charlie, nestling up to his aunt.  “He spoke to mammy the day she took me to feed the ducks.”

“I think that is only a fancy, dear.”

“No; I am quite sure.”

“Oh, you are always fancying things; you are a silly,” cried Cecil, now quite recovered, and turning to kneel upon the seat that he might look out, thereby rubbing his feet on the very best “afternoon” dress of a severely respectable female, whose rubicund face expressed “drat the boy!” as strongly as a face could.