a pocket a greasy pack of cards, at which he and the two musicians who had arrived with him began to play at farthing “Nap,” a game which the most difficult passages of their performance did not interrupt, each card-player somehow contriving to play almost directly it came to his turn.  Mr Cheadle, playing the cornet, had one hand always free; he shuffled the cards, dealt them, and put down the winnings.  When Mavis became more used to the vagaries of their instrumental playing, she was amused at the way in which they combined business with diversion.  Mr Baffy, also, interested her; he still continued to stare before him, as he played with watery, purposeless eyes, and with mouth agape.

Halfway through the programme, there was an interval for refreshments.  Mavis was conducted by Mr Poulter to a table set apart for the artistes in the room in which the lightest of light refreshments were served to his patrons.

Mavis sat down to a plateful of what looked uncommonly like her old friend, brisket of beef; she was now so hungry that she was glad to get anything so substantial.

“‘Ow are you gettin’ on?” asked a familiar voice over her shoulder.

Mavis looked up, to see Miss Nippett, who had discarded her cap and apron; she was now in her usual rusty frock, with her shawl upon her narrow, stooping shoulders.

“All right, thank you.  Why don’t you have some?”

“No, thank you.  I can’t spare the time.  I’m ‘light refreshments.’”

“But they’re all eaten!” remarked Mavis, as her eye ranged along a length of table-cloth innocent of food or decoration.

“‘Poulter’s’ ain’t such a fool as to stick nothink out; it would all be ‘wolfed’ in a second.  Let ’em ask.”

“Some people mightn’t like to.”

“That’s their look-out,” snapped Miss Nippett, who had a heart of stone where the interests of anything antagonistic to “Poulter’s” were concerned.

At the conclusion of the evening, the band was paid.

Mr Baffy got a shilling for his services, which he held in his hand and looked stupidly before him, till he got a cut with a bow from the second violinist, at which he put the money in his pocket.  He then shouldered his bass viol and plunged out into the darkness.

Mavis’s heart went out to Mr Baffy.  She wondered where and how he lived; how he passed his time; what had reduced him to his present condition.

She spoke of him to Mr Poulter, who looked perplexed before replying: 

“Ah, my dear young lady, it’s as well for such as you not to inquire too closely into the lives of we who are artistes.”

When Mavis had put on her hat and cloak, and was leaving the Athenaeum, Miss Nippett called out: 

“It’s all right; you can sleep sound; ’e’s pleased with you.”

“Who?” asked Mavis.

“Mr Poulter.  Who else d’ye think I meant?”

Three days later, Mavis severed her connection with “Poulter’s.”  Upon her going, Mr Poulter presented her with a signed photograph of himself in full war-paint, an eulogistically worded testimonial, also, an honorarium (this was his word) of five shillings.  Mavis was loth to take it; but seeing the dancing-master’s distress at her hesitation, she reluctantly pocketed the money.