Joan laughed. “I’m a drummer boy,” she answered. “I beat my drum each week in a Sunday newspaper, hoping the lads will follow.” The girl turned and went. Joan watched her as she descended the great staircase. She moved with a curious, gliding motion, pausing at times for the people to make way for her.!

“No,” she whispered. “Of course not. I don’t like your tie.” It seemed to depress him, that. “I think it is someone I know,” she said. “Won’t you help me?”

“We have been meaning to call on you so often,” panted Mrs. Phillips. The room was crowded and the exertion of squeezing her way through had winded the poor lady. “We take so much interest in your articles. My husband—” she paused for a second, before venturing upon the word, and the aitch came out somewhat over-aspirated—“reads them most religiously. You must come and dine with us one evening.” “I’m afraid you don’t like him,” Joan commented. “They’ll give us ginger before it is over,” said another. He had had both his lips torn away, and appeared to be always laughing. “Stuff it into us as if we were horses at a fair. That will make us run forward, right enough.”