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 *inset with jewels of rare variety—a present from—never mind who, ye froward journalists.

"Ritz at eight. Polly will curse if kept waiting for her meals."

"Absolute nailer," said the vain young man. "Would like to meet her awfully if you can manage it for me."

Arminius Wingrove pondered some.

"Why—ye-es," said that great man.

"Thought perhaps?"

Arminius Wingrove pondered more.

"Must go—poor old Polly. But be at the Carlton Monday at five."

With suppressed, but deep and sincere, emotion the heir to the barony wrung the bejeweled hand of Arminius Wingrove. Never more would he pull his leg. Not a bad chap; harmless very.

"Have another sherry?"

Nary.

Exit Arminius Wingrove to dress to take old Polly to the Ritz Hotel. Let us hope his evenin' will not be as dull as in his heart of hearts he fears it will be; and even if he is carried out a corpse at a quarter-past eleven from that palatial building which is not so far from Piccadilly, his dying thought must be that he perished in the performance of a kind, considerate, and gentlemanly action.