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 watched the dancing with the keenest eyes, and discussed it very gravely indeed. After the entertainment they walked down Piccadilly, discussing the different turns, to the Bond Street confectioner's. There they made an excellent tea.

They were strolling back down Piccadilly, still talking earnestly, when a motor-car drew up at the curb with a jerk, ten feet before them, and the Duke of Osterley sprang out of it.

He caught Pollyooly by the arm, crying triumphantly : "Marion at last! Where did you find her?"

"I'm not Marion!" cried the startled Pollyooly, trying to tug her arm away.

"That isn't Marion, sir!" cried Ronald.

"Not Marion? What do you mean? What are you talking about?" cried the duke.

"She's Mary Bride," said Ronald.

"Yes, I'm Mary Bride. Let go my arm!" said Pollyooly, tugging harder.

"Do you two impudent young devils think I don't know my own daughter?" cried the duke; and his prim face began to redden with anger.

"I'm not your daughter!" cried Pollyooly.