Sylvia  began  to  strum  upon  her  guitar  the  tune  that
Arthur  Madden  and  she  sang  together  from  the  windows
at  Hampstead  on  the  night  she  met  him  first;  her  com-
panion soon  caught  hold  of  the  air,  and  they  strolled  slowly
along,  dreaming,  she  looking  downward  of  the  past,  he  of
the  future  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  chimneys  of  the  high
flats  that  encircled  the  little  houses  and  long  gardens  of
Tinderbox  Lane.  They  were  passing  a  wall  on  their  right
in  which  numbered  doors  were  set  at  intervals.  From  one
of  these  a  tall  figure  emerged  and  stopped  a  moment  to  say
good-by  to  somebody  standing  in  the  entrance.  The  two
musicians  with  a  simultaneous  instinct  for  an  audience
that  might  appreciate  them  stopped  and  addressed  their
song  to  the  parting  pair,  a  tall  old  gentleman  with  droop-
ing gray  whiskers,  very  much  muffled  up,  and  an  exceed-
ingly stout  woman  of  ripe  middle  age.
"Bravo!"  said  the  old  gentleman,  in  a  tremulous  voice,
as  he  tapped  his  cane  on  the  pavement.  "Polly,  this  is
devilish  appropriate.  By  gad!  it  makes  me  feel  inclined
to  dance  again,  Polly,"  and  the  old  gentleman  forthwith
postured  with  his  thin  legs  like  a  cardboard  antic  at  the
end  of  a  string.  The  fat  woman  standing  in  the  doorway
came  out  into  the  lamplight,  and  clasping  her  hands  in
alarm,  begged  him  not  to  take  cold,  but  the  old  gentleman
would  not  stop  until  Polly  had  made  a  pretense  of  dancing
a  few  steps  with  him,  after  which  he  again  piped,  "Bravo,"
vowed  he  must  have  a  whisky,  and  invited  Sylvia  and  Jack
to  come  inside  and  join  them.
