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A couple of passers-by had paused, interested, to watch developments. You could never tell, of course. Many an apparently promising row never got any farther than words. But, glancing at Arthur’s face, they certainly felt justified in pausing. Mr Shute spoke.

‘If it wasn’t,’ he said, carefully, ‘that I don’t want trouble with the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, I’d–‘

He broke off, for, to the accompaniment of a shout of approval from the two spectators, Arthur had swung his right fist, and it had taken him smartly on the side of the head.

Compared with the blows Mr Shute was wont to receive in the exercise of his profession, Arthur’s was a gentle tap. But there was one circumstance which gave it a deadliness all its own. Achilles had his heel. Mr Shute’s vulnerable point was at the other extremity. Instead of countering, he uttered a cry of agony, and clutched wildly with both hands at his hat.

He was too late. It fell to the ground and bounded away, with its proprietor in passionate chase. Arthur snorted and gently chafed his knuckles.

There was a calm about Mr Shute’s demeanour as, having given his treasure a final polish and laid it carefully down, he began to advance on his adversary, which was more than ominous. His lips were a thin line of steel. The muscles stood out over his jaw-bones. Crouching in his professional manner, he moved forward softly, like a cat.

And it was at this precise moment, just as the two spectators, reinforced now by eleven other men of sporting tastes, were congratulating themselves on their acumen in having stopped to watch, that Police-Constable Robert Bryce, intruding fourteen stones of bone and muscle between the combatants, addressed to Mr Shute these memorable words: ”Ullo, ‘ullo! ‘Ullo, ‘ullo, ‘ul-lo!’

Mr Shute appealed to his sense of justice.

‘The mutt knocked me hat off.’

‘And I’d do it again,’ said Arthur, truculently.

‘Not while I’m here you wouldn’t, young fellow,’ said Mr Bryce, with decision. ‘I’m surprised at you,’ he went on, pained. ‘And you look a respectable young chap, too. You pop off.’

A shrill voice from the crowd at this point offered the constable all cinematograph rights if he would allow the contest to proceed.

‘And you pop off, too, all of you,’ continued Mr Bryce. ‘Blest if I know what kids are coming to nowadays. And as for you,’ he said, addressing Mr Shute, ‘all you’ve got to do is to keep that face of yours closed. That’s what you’ve got to do. I’ve got my eye on you, mind, and if I catch you a-follerin’ of him’–he jerked his thumb over his shoulder at Arthur’s departing figure–‘I’ll pinch you. Sure as you’re alive.’ He paused. ‘I’d have done it already,’ he added, pensively, ‘if it wasn’t me birthday.’

* * * * *

Arthur Welsh turned sharply. For some time he had been dimly aware that somebody was calling his name.

‘Oh, Arthur!’

She was breathing quickly. He could see the tears in her eyes.

‘I’ve been running. You walked so fast.’

He stared down at her gloomily.

‘Go away,’ he said. ‘I’ve done with you.’

She clutched at his coat.

‘Arthur, listen–listen! It’s all a mistake. I thought you–you didn’t care for me any more, and I was miserable, and I wrote to the paper and asked what should I do, and they said I ought to test you and try and make you jealous, and that that would relieve my apprehensions. And I hated it, but I did it, and you didn’t seem to care till now. And you know that there’s nobody but you.’

‘You–The paper? What?’ he stammered.

‘Yes, yes, yes. I wrote to Fireside Chat, and Dr Cupid said that when jealousy flew out of the window indifference came in at the door, and that I must exhibit pleasure in the society of other gentlemen and mark your demeanour. So I–Oh!’

Arthur, luckier than Mr Shute, was not hampered by a too small silk hat.

It was a few moments later, as they moved slowly towards the Flip-Flap–which had seemed to both of them a fitting climax for the evening’s emotions–that Arthur, fumbling in his waist-coat pocket, produced a small slip of paper.

‘What’s that?’ Maud asked.

‘Read it,’ said Arthur. ‘It’s from Home Moments, in answer to a letter I sent them. And,’ he added with heat, ‘I’d like to have five minutes alone with the chap who wrote it.’

And under the electric light Maud read

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS

By the Heart Specialist

Arthur W.–Jealousy, Arthur W., is not only the most wicked, but the most foolish of passions. Shakespeare says:

It is the green-eyed monster, which doth mock
The meat it feeds on.

You admit that you have frequently caused great distress to the young lady of your affections by your exhibition of this weakness. Exactly. There is nothing a girl dislikes or despises more than jealousy. Be a man, Arthur W. Fight against it. You may find it hard at first, but persevere. Keep a smiling face. If she seems to enjoy talking to other men, show no resentment. Be merry and bright. Believe me, it is the only way.