"No, no, Dad, that isn't fair, and really, you know, I don't believe we could help ourselves, everything has come about exactly as Lal arranged it."

"I am very angry with Lal and his tricks, and if I thought he would listen to me for one minute, I would go down now and--Good gracious alive!" broke off Sir Simon, as he stared somewhat wildly out of the window; "what's that?"

"What's what?" inquired the Writer inconsequently, from his easy-chair at the other end of the room.

Sir Simon rubbed his eyes, then he looked out of the window again, then he rubbed his spectacles in case by any chance they were deceiving him.

"My dear boy," faltered Sir Simon, "is that--is'

that--ahem!--Creme-de-Menthe you gave me exceptionally strong by any chance?"

"No, same as it always is, Dad; why?"

"Then I'm not mistaken, Lal's eyes have gone a _bright_ green, the same colour as the liqueur in that bottle. Green," shouted Sir Simon, "and they are blazing like fireworks. Look! look at them."

The Writer rushed across the room to the window.

There could be no doubt about it that the calm eyes of the Pleasant-Faced Lion, which were wont to gaze haughtily upon the more commonplace things around him in Trafalgar Square, had suddenly changed to the colour of living emeralds, and were terrible to behold.

"Great Scott!" muttered the astonished Writer, "I have never seen him look like that. He's angry about something."

"He's more than angry--he's furious," suggested the Lord Mayor nervously. "What on earth can be the reason of it? Why, yes, I see.

Why, how dare she!" spluttered Sir Simon. "There's a woman dancing, positively waltzing round the Square with his wreath of water-lilies I put there for him! I'll stop her, she must bring it back at once."

Without another word, Sir Simon rushed for the door and downstairs with the most surprising speed, followed closely by the Writer, who considered his old friend ought not to be deserted upon such a mission.

"Ho! hi! stop thief," puffed the Lord Mayor, as he toiled three parts round Trafalgar Square after the corybantic lady, who was dancing on ahead with the huge wreath held with both arms, swaying over her, as she danced a sort of baccha.n.a.l in front of the enraged Sir Simon.

"Hi!" panted the Lord Mayor, as after frantic efforts he came alongside. "Woman, bring that wreath back at once; how dare you take it away!"

"Oh, go on, ole dear," retorted the lady good-humouredly; "ain't it making me much 'appier than an old lion? Why, bless you, it put me in mind of the days when I used to play Alice in Pantomimes. Lead, I used to play, once, yes, s'welp me if I wasn't. What 'arm am I a-doing?

Oh, look 'ere, if you're going to get snuffy, 'ere, take your ole wreath. I'm blowed if you don't look as if you come out of a Pantomime yourself, in them red robes! 'Ave yer been playing in a Pantomime?"

"Certainly not," replied Sir Simon, somewhat stiffly.

"Why, now I sees the light on your face, I knows you quite well; 'ow do yer do, ole sport? I'm Alice; don't you remember little Alice in the Pantomime of d.i.c.k Whittington ten years ago at Sloc.u.m Theatre Royal?

Why, you gave me a bouquet, and stood me two gla.s.ses of port."

The Lord Mayor groaned.

"Little Alice," he queried vaguely; "let me see, little Alice?"

"Yes," averred the lady, who must have weighed fully eighteen stone, "shake hands, old pal."

The Lord Mayor felt thoroughly uncomfortable, more particularly as the Writer joined him at that moment.

"Ahem! an old Pantomime friend," explained Sir Simon.

"Yes, my dears," continued the lady, "and I don't get no Pantomimes now, been 'ard up, I 'ave, for a long time, can't even get chorus now; but bless your 'earts! coming along to-night, when I gets to Trafalgar Square, I somehow could 'ave declared I saw that there Lion a-laughing at me, and then when I sees the wreath, blessed if I didn't want to dance once again all of a sudden. Look 'ere, old sport, you used to have plenty of the shinies in the old days, you used to chuck the 'oof about a bit; I remember you was a-looking for some bloke who wrote--that you had an idea in your 'ead all us girls wanted to marry."

The distressed Lord Mayor fumbled in his pockets and produced two sovereigns.

"Thank you, ole dear," observed the lady, as she pocketed the gold with alacrity, "you was always one of the best; and Cissie Laurie, that's me, you know--Cissie--who used to play Alice, will always swear you are a tip-top clipper. Lor! when I sees you in them robes, and you ain't told me yet why you've got 'em on----

"An inadvertency," stuttered the Lord Mayor; "most unfortunate."

"Well, when I sees you in them robes it puts me in mind of the dear old Pantomime, when little Alice flings herself at the Lord Mayor's feet,"

and here, overcome with past recollections of the drama, the fat lady sunk upon her knees, and dramatically clasping the robes of Sir Simon, to that worthy old gentleman's utter confusion and consternation, at the same time gave forth aloud the doggerel lines that had once accompanied the incident in the play--

"Oh! Dad, I'm your Alice, in whom you're disappointed, And here is d.i.c.k Whittington, whose nose was out-of-jointed, Though your heart be as cold as an icicle king's, Forgive us and say we are nice 'ikkle things."

"Oh, hush! hush! dreadful," implored the Lord Mayor, endeavouring in vain to extricate himself from the dramatic lady's clutches.

At this moment a gruff judicial voice, which sent an immediate thrill down the worthy Lord Mayor's back, broke in upon the scene.

"Now, then, what's all this? Move on, there!"

A dark blue policeman stood in the pale blue moonlight.

The Lord Mayor only shivered.

The dramatic lady was equal to the occasion.

"Aren't we a picture?" she asked coquettishly.

"Get up, then," commanded the policeman dryly, "and be a movin' one."

"All right, don't get huffy, dear, we're professionals."

"So I should think," observed the policeman shortly.

The Writer thought this a most propitious moment to seize the Lord Mayor by the arm, and hurry him in the direction of his own rooms, across the almost deserted centre of the Square, without waiting for any further conversation of any description.

The policeman stared after them suspiciously as they moved away.

"What's he doing in them things?" inquired the policeman of the lady.

"Lor', 'ow should I know? I guess he's a good sort, though, he gave me some money."

"Oh, did he?" remarked the policeman in a sepulchral voice. "Well, I hope he came by it honestly, that's all."

"Oh, that old chap's all right, old tin-feet," retorted the once time Lady of the Drama. "I only think 'e's a bit balmy in his 'ead, that's all. So-long, I'm off 'ome!"

"Balmy in his head, eh?" grumbled the policeman gruffly. "Ah, I thought there was a funny look about him; yes. Well, I had better follow him up, and see that he doesn't get up to no mischief of any sort."

"I say, Dad," suggested the Writer, "you had better let me carry the wreath, whilst you lake off those robes; you know they attract a lot of attention, even at this time of night."

"I am afraid they do," confessed the Mayor. "What a dreadful and degrading scene! That upsetting fragment of a pantomime enacted in the open air, too, which is only a specimen of the stuff I was compelled to listen to for so many years!"