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“Well,” he said, “I don’t know whether you’re aware of it, but you’ve got three split infinitives in your City article.”

“Ah!” I replied. “The next time Millie Wyandotte telephones up to your head, give her my love and tell her not to over-strain herself.”

Things went from bad to worse, and after he had alluded to my backbone as my Personal Column, any possibility of reconciliation seemed at an end. I did not know then what a terribly determined person Hugo was.

Georgie Leghorn saw me home. I parted with him at the house, let myself in by the area-gate, locking it after me, and so down the steps and into the kitchen.

There I had just taken off my hair when I heard a shrill whistle in the street outside. Hurriedly replacing my only beauty, I drew up the blind and looked out. There, up above me on the pavement, was Hugo, stretching away into the distance.

“Called for the reconciliation,” he said. “Just open this area gate, will you?”

“At this time of night?” I called, in a tense whisper. “Certainly not.”

He stepped back, and in one leap jumped over the area-railings and down on to the window-sill of the kitchen. The next moment he had flung the window up, entered, and stood beside me.

“What do you think of that?” he said calmly.

“Hugo,” I said, “I’ve known some bounders in my time, but not one who could have done that.”

We sat down and began discussing the Disestablishment of the Welsh Church, when suddenly the area-gate was rattled and a stern voice outside said “Police.”

Instantly, Hugo concealed as much of himself as he could under the kitchen table. There was no help for it. I had to let the policeman in, or he would have roused the household.

“I’m just going to have a look in your kitchen,” he said.

“No use,” I replied. “The rabbit-pie was finished yesterday.”

“Saucy puss, ain’t you?” he said, as he entered.

“Well, you might be a sport and tell a girl what you’re after.”

“Cabman, driving past here a few minutes ago, saw a man jump the area-railings and make a burglarious entry by the kitchen window.”

“Is that all?” I said. “A man did enter that way a few minutes ago, but it was not a burglar. It was Master Edward, Mrs. Pettifer’s eldest son. He’d lost his latch-key–he’s always doing it–and that’s how it happened. He went straight upstairs to bed, or he’d confirm what I say.”

“Went straight up to bed, did he? Did he take his legs off first? I notice there’s a pair of them sticking out from under the kitchen table.”

“Yes,” I admitted, “I’ve told better lies in my time. Oh, Mr. Policeman, don’t be hard. I never wanted my young man to come larking about like this. But–he’s not a burglar. He’s the exhibit from the Auto-extensor Co.’s in Regent Street. You can pull out the rest of him and see if he isn’t.”

“That’s what I told the cabman,” said the policeman. “I said to him: ‘You juggins,’ I said, ‘do you think a burglar who wants to get into a house waits till a cab’s going past and then gives a acrobatic exhibition to attract the driver’s attention? That’s some young fool after one of the maids.’ No, I don’t want to see the rest of the young man–not if he’s like the sample. Get him unwound as soon as you can, and send him about his business. If he’s not out in two minutes, I shall ring the front door, and you’ll be in the cart. And don’t act so silly another time.”

Hugo was out in 1 min. 35 sec. He stopped to chat with the policeman, jumped the seven-foot railings into the square garden, and jumped back again, just to show what he could do, and went off.

I gave a long, deep sigh. I always do that when an incident in my life fails to reach the best autobiographical level. I neither knew nor cared what the policeman thought. You see, I would never deserve a bad reputation, but there’s nothing else I wouldn’t do to get one.