queen of many a provincial city; no wonder that every errand boy in the metropolis whistled "Nelson" and "Arcadee."
On his way to his rooms he called at a news-agent's, and invested a shilling in picture-postcards of Mary Caspar.
"I suppose you sell a lot of these?"
"Hundreds," said the young man behind the counter. "We've sold out three times in a fortnight, and the demand is increasing."
On Sunday afternoon, as five o'clock was striking from St. Martin's Church, Mr. Philip drove up to Bedford Gardens and pulled the door bell of Number Ten.
A trim little parlor-maid led him up to a cozy little drawing-room.
Miss Caspar received him with unaffected cordiality.
"And this is my Granny, Mr. Shelmerdine," said Cinderella proudly.
Grandmamma was a stately old dame in a turban, turned eighty-four—a really wonderful old lady. Her speech was lively and forcible; and her manner had the grace of one who had grown old with dignity. It had a half-humorous touch of grandeur also, as of one who has known the great world from the inside, and is not inclined to rate it above its value.
Grandmamma shook hands, and said she was glad to meet the son of his father.
