dribble of civil enquiries for the sake of saying something.
"What pretty work. How do you do it?"
"Oh! it is a new stitch I have just learned."
"Were you out this afternoon?"
"No; I lay down and took a nap. Were you?"
"Yes, I went down to High Street for some wool."
The evening to which we refer, though as dull, was not destined to be as peaceful as its fellows. The cause of the disturbance was Miss Semaphore's dog. Miss Semaphore's dog was a mongrel, a snappish little brute called Toutou. Its brown hair was flecked with grey, for it was old, fat, and scant of breath. Toutou had been the cause of more unpleasantness at 37, Beaconsfield Gardens, than any other inmate. If, in the quarrels of men, cherchez la femme holds good, in the quarrels of idle women who live in boarding-*houses one may not unfrequently look for the dog. To-night, unfortunately for herself, Miss Belcher, one of the younger women, trod on its tail. Frankly, it was difficult to avoid treading on Toutou's tail, for he had a trick of getting into the way that was
