“Aren’t you well?” asked Mavis, as she kissed her friend’s cheek.

“Quite.  Reely I am but for a slight cold.  Mr Poulter, ’e’s well too.  Fancy you married!”

“Yes,” said Mavis sadly.

But Miss Nippett took no notice of her dejection.

“I’ve never ’ad time to get married, there’s so much to do at ‘Poulter’s.’  You know!  Still, there’s no knowing.”

Mavis, distressed as she was, could hardly restrain a smile.

“I’ve news too,” went on Miss Nippett.

“Have you?” asked Mavis, who was burning to get to the reason of her call.

“Ain’t you heard of it?”

“I can’t say I have.”

By way of explanation, Miss Nippett handed Mavis one of a pile of prospectuses at her elbow; she at once recognised the familiar pamphlet that extolled Mr Poulter’s wares.

“See!  ’E’s got my name on the ’pectus.  ’All particulars from Poulter’s or Miss Nippett, 19 Blomfield Road, W.’  Isn’t that something to talk about and think over?”

Mavis hastily assented; she was about to ask for Miss Meakin’s address, but Miss Nippett was too quick for her.

“D’ye think he’ll win?”

“Who?”

“Mr Poulter, of course.  ’Aven’t you ’eard?”

“Tell me.”

“Oh, I say, you are ignorant!  He’s competing for the great cotillion prize competition.  I thought everybody knew about it.”

“I think I’ve heard something.  But could you tell me Miss Meakin’s address?”

“11 Baynham Street, North Kensington, near Uxbridge Road station,” Miss Nippett informed Mavis, after referring to an exercise book, to add:  “This is the dooplicate register of ‘Poulter’s.’  I always keep it here in case the other should get lost.  Mr. Poulter, like all them great men, is that careless.”

“Come again soon,” said Miss Nippett, as Mavis rose to go.

Mavis promised that she would.

“How long have you been married?”

“Not long.  Three months.”

“Any baby?”

“After three months!” blushed Mavis.

“Working so at ‘Poulter’s’ makes one forget them things.  No offence,” apologised Miss Nippett.

“Good-bye.  I’ll look in again soon.”

“If you ’ave any babies, see they’re taught dancing at ‘Poulter’s.’”

Between Notting Hill and Wormwood Scrubbs lies a vast desert of human dwellings.  Fringing Notting Hill they are inhabited by lower middle-class folk, but, by scarcely perceptible degrees, there is a declension of so-called respectability, till at last the frankly working-class district of Latimer Road is reached.  Baynham Street was one of the ill-conditioned, down-at-heel little roads which tenaciously fought an uphill fight with encroaching working-class thoroughfares.  Its inhabitants referred with pride to the fact that Baynham Street overlooked a railway, which view could be obtained by craning the neck out of window at risk of dislocation.  A brawny man was standing before the open door of No. 11 as Mavis walked up the steps.