“What’s the time?”

“You’re not thinking of going yet?  Why were you looking for me?”

“It’s nearly ten,” declared Miss Toombs, as she looked at her watch.  “Unless I stay the night here, I must be off.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Notting Hill.  I beg its pardon—­North Kensington.  They’re quiet people.  If I’m not back soon, my character will be lost and I shall be locked out for the night.”

“I’d love you to stay.  But there’s scarcely room for you in this poky little hole.”

“Can’t I engage another room?”

“But the expense?”

“Blow that!  See if they can put me up.”

Mavis talked to Miss Gussle on the subject.  Very soon, Mr Gussle could be heard panting up the stairs with an iron chair bedstead, which was set up, with other conveniences, in the music-hall agent’s office.

“Nice if he comes back and came into my room in the night,” remarked Miss Toombs.

“What on earth would you do?” asked Mavis.

“Lock the door to keep him in,” replied Miss Toombs quickly, at which the two friends laughed immoderately.

As Miss Toombs was leaving the room to wire to her landlady to tell her that she was staying with friends for the night, she kissed her hand to Mavis’s baby.

“What are you going to call him?” she asked.

“Charlie, of course,” promptly replied Mavis.

The next moment, she could have bitten off her tongue for having given Miss Toombs a possible clue to her lover’s identity:  she had resolved never to betray him to a living soul.

But Mavis comforted herself on the score that her friend received her information without betraying interest or surprise.  Twenty minutes later, Miss Toombs came back, staggering beneath the weight of an accumulation of parcels, which contained a variety of things that Mavis might want.

“How could you spend your money on me?” asked Mavis, as the different purchases were unpacked.

“If one can’t have a romance oneself, the next best thing is to be mixed up in someone else’s,” replied Miss Toombs.

Mavis and her friend sat down to a supper of strawberries and cream, whilst they drank claret and soda water.  Jill was not forgotten; Miss Toombs had bought her a pound of meat scraps from the butcher’s, which the dog critically consumed in a corner.

“Let me hear about your romance and all the Melkbridge news,” said Mavis, as she stopped her friend from pouring more cream upon her plate of strawberries.

“Blow Melkbridge!” exclaimed Miss Toombs, her face hardening.

“But I love it.  I’m always thinking about it, and I’d give anything to go back there.”

“Eh!”

“I said I’d give anything to be back there.”

“Rot!”

“Why rot?”

“You mustn’t dream of going back,” cried Miss Toombs anxiously.

“Why on earth not?”