1.

　　"They tell me . . . I am told . . . I am informed . . . No, onemoment, Miss Frisby."Mrs Peagrim wrinkled her fair forehead. It has been truly said thatthere is no agony like the agony of literary composition, and Mrs.

　　Peagrim was having rather a bad time getting the requisite snap andginger into her latest communication to the press. She bit her lip,and would have passed her twitching fingers restlessly through herhair but for the thought of the damage which such an action must doto her coiffure. Miss Frisby, her secretary, an anaemic and negativeyoung woman, waited patiently, pad on knee, and tapped her teeth withher pencil.

　　"Please do not make that tapping noise, Miss Frisby," said thesufferer querulously. "I cannot think. Otie, dear, can't you suggesta good phrase? You ought to be able to, being an author."Mr Pilkington, who was strewn over an arm-chair by the window, awokefrom his meditations, which, to judge from the furrow just above thebridge of his tortoiseshell spectacles and the droop of his weakchin, were not pleasant. It was the morning after the production of"The Rose of America," and he had passed a sleepless night, thinkingof the harsh words he had said to Jill. Could she ever forgive him?

　　Would she have the generosity to realize that a man ought not to beheld accountable for what he says in the moment when he discoversthat he has been cheated, deceived, robbed,--in a word, hornswoggled?

　　He had been brooding on this all night, and he wanted to go onbrooding now. His aunt's question interrupted his train of thought.

　　"Eh?" he said vaguely, gaping.

　　"Oh, don't be so absent-minded!" snapped Mrs Peagrim, notunjustifiably annoyed. "I am trying to compose a paragraph for thepapers about our party tonight, and I can't get the right phrase . . .

　　Read what you've written, Miss Frisby."Miss Frisby, having turned a pale eye on the pothooks and twiddleysin her note-book, translated them in a pale voice.

　　"'Surely of all the leading hostesses in New York Society there canbe few more versatile than Mrs Waddlesleigh Peagrim. I am amazedevery time I go to her delightful home on West End Avenue to see thescope and variety of her circle of intimates. Here you will see anambassador with a fever . . .'""With a _what?_" demanded Mrs Peagrim sharply.

　　"'Fever,' I thought you said," replied Miss Frisby stolidly. "I wrote'fever'.""'Diva.' Do use your intelligence, my good girl. Go on.""'Here you will see an ambassador with a diva from the opera,exchanging the latest gossip from the chancelleries for intimate newsof the world behind the scenes. There, the author of the latest noveltalking literature to the newest debutante. Truly one may say thatMrs Peagrim has revived the saloon.'"Mrs Peagrim bit her lip.

　　"'Salon'.""'Salon'," said Miss Frisby unemotionally. "'They tell me, I am told,I am informed . . .'" She paused. "That's all I have.""Scratch out those last words," said Mrs Peagrim irritably. "Youreally are hopeless, Miss Frisby! Couldn't you see that I had stoppeddictating and was searching for a phrase? Otie, what is a good phrasefor 'I am told'?"Mr Pilkington forced his wandering attention to grapple with theproblem.

　　"'I hear'," he suggested at length.

　　"Tchah!" ejaculated his aunt. Then her face brightened. "I have it.

　　Take dictation, please, Miss Frisby. 'A little bird whispers to methat there were great doings last night on the stage of the GothamTheatre after the curtain had fallen on "The Rose of America" which,as everybody knows, is the work of Mrs Peagrim's clever young nephew,Otis Pilkington.'" Mrs Peagrim shot a glance at her clever youngnephew, to see how he appreciated the boost, but Otis' thoughts werefar away once more. He was lying on his spine, brooding, brooding.

　　Mrs Peagrim resumed her dictation. "'In honor of the extraordinarysuccess of the piece, Mrs Peagrim, who certainly does nothing byhalves, entertained the entire company to a supper-dance after theperformance. A number of prominent people were among the guests, andMrs Peagrim was a radiant and vivacious hostess. She has never lookedmore charming. The high jinks were kept up to an advanced hour, andevery one agreed that they had never spent a more delightfulevening.' There! Type as many copies as are necessary, Miss Frisby,and send them out this afternoon with photographs."Miss Frisby having vanished in her pallid way, the radiant andvivacious hostess turned on her nephew again.

　　"I must say, Otie," she began complainingly, "that, for a man who hashad a success like yours, you are not very cheerful. I should havethought the notices of the piece would have made you the happiest manin New York."There was once a melodrama where the child of the persecuted heroineused to dissolve the gallery in tears by saying "Happiness? What _is_happiness, moth-aw?" Mr Pilkington did not use these actual words,but he reproduced the stricken infant's tone with great fidelity.

　　"Notices! What are notices to me?""Oh, don't be so affected!" cried Mrs Peagrim. "Don't pretend thatyou don't know every word of them by heart!""I have not seen the notices, Aunt Olive," said Mr Pilkington dully.

　　Mrs Peagrim looked at him with positive alarm. She had never beenoverwhelmingly attached to her long nephew, but since his rise tofame something resembling affection had sprung up in her, and hisattitude now disturbed her.

　　"You can't be well, Otie!" she said solicitously. "Are you ill?""I have a severe headache," replied the martyr. "I passed a wakefulnight.""Let me go and mix you a dose of the most wonderful mixture," saidMrs. Peagrim maternally. "Poor boy! I don't wonder, after all thenervousness and excitement . . . You sit quite still and rest. I willbe back in a moment."She bustled out of the room, and Mr Pilkington sagged back into hischair. He had hardly got his meditations going once more, when thedoor opened and the maid announced "Major Selby.""Good morning," said Uncle Chris breezily, sailing down the fairwaywith outstretched hand. "How are--oh!"He stopped abruptly, perceiving that Mrs Peagrim was not presentand--a more disturbing discovery--that Otis Pilkington was. It wouldbe exaggeration to say that Uncle Chris was embarrassed. Thatmaster-mind was never actually embarrassed. But his jauntinesscertainly ebbed a little, and he had to pull his mustache twicebefore he could face the situation with his customary _aplomb_. Hehad not expected to find Otis Pilkington here, and Otis was the lastman he wished to meet. He had just parted from Jill, who had beenrather plain-spoken with regard to the recent financial operations:

　　and, though possessed only of a rudimentary conscience, Uncle Chriswas aware that his next interview with young Mr Pilkington might havecertain aspects bordering on awkwardness and he would have liked timeto prepare a statement for the defence. However, here the man was,and the situation must be faced.

　　"Pilkington!" he cried. "My dear fellow! Just the man I wanted tosee! I'm afraid there has been a little misunderstanding. Of course,it has all been cleared up now, but still I must insist on making apersonal explanation, really I must insist. The whole matter was amost absurd misunderstanding. It was like this . . ."Here Uncle Chris paused in order to devote a couple of seconds tothought. He had said it was "like this," and he gave his mustacheanother pull as though he were trying to drag inspiration out of it.

　　His blue eyes were as frank and honest as ever, and showed no traceof the perplexity in his mind, but he had to admit to himself that,if he managed to satisfy his hearer that all was for the best andthat he had acted uprightly and without blame, he would be doingwell.

　　Fortunately, the commercial side of Mr Pilkington was entirelydormant this morning. The matter of the ten thousand dollars seemedtrivial to him in comparison with the weightier problems whichoccupied his mind.

　　"Have you seen Miss Mariner?" he asked eagerly.

　　"Yes. I have just parted from her. She was upset, poor girl, ofcourse, exceedingly upset."Mr Pilkington moaned hollowly.

　　"Is she very angry with me?"For a moment the utter inexplicability of the remark silenced UncleChris. Why Jill should be angry with Mr Pilkington for being robbedof ten thousand dollars, he could not understand, for Jill had toldhim nothing of the scene that had taken place on the previous night.

　　But evidently this point was to Mr Pilkington the nub of the matter,and Uncle Chris, like the strategist he was, rearranged his forces tomeet the new development.

　　"Angry?" he said slowly. "Well, of course . . ."He did not know what it was all about, but no doubt if he confinedhimself to broken sentences which meant nothing light would shortlybe vouchsafed to him.

　　"In the heat of the moment," confessed Mr Pilkington, "I'm afraid Isaid things to Miss Mariner which I now regret."Uncle Chris began to feel on solid ground again.

　　"Dear, dear!" he murmured regretfully.

　　"I s............