Prominent among the elegantly-dressed dolls that filled an entire
section of the window frontage was a large hobble-skirted lady in a

confection of peach-coloured velvet, elaborately set off with
leopard skin accessories, if one may use such a conveniently

comprehensive word in describing an intricatefeminine toilette.
She lacked nothing that is to be found in a carefully detailed

fashion-plate--in fact, she might be said to have something more
than the average fashion-plate female possesses; in place of a

vacant, expressionless stare she had character in her face. It must
be admitted that it was bad character, cold, hostile, inquisitorial,

with a sinister lowering of one eyebrow and a merciless hardness
about the corners of the mouth. One might have imagined histories

about her by the hour, histories in which unworthyambition, the
desire for money, and an entire absence of all decent feeling would

play a conspicuous part.
As a matter of fact, she was not without her judges and biographers,

even in this shop-window stage of her career. Emmeline, aged ten,
and Bert, aged seven, had halted on the way from their obscure back

street to the minnow-stocked water of St. James's Park, and were
critically examining the hobble-skirted doll, and dissecting her

character in no very tolerant spirit. There is probably a latent
enmity between the necessarily under-clad and the unnecessarily

over-dressed, but a little kindness and good fellowship on the part
of the latter will often change the sentiment to admiring devotion;

if the lady in peach-coloured velvet and leopard skin had worn a
pleasant expression in addition to her other elaborate furnishings,

Emmeline at least might have respected and even loved her. As it
was, she gave her a horriblereputation, based chiefly on a

secondhand knowledge of gilded depravity derived from the
conversation of those who were skilled in the art of novelette

reading; Bert filled in a few damaging details from his own limited
imagination.

"She's a bad lot, that one is," declared Emmeline, after a long
unfriendly stare; "'er 'usbind 'ates 'er."

"'E knocks 'er abart," said Bert, with enthusiasm.
"No, 'e don't, cos 'e's dead; she poisoned 'im slow and gradual, so

that nobody didn't know. Now she wants to marry a lord, with 'eaps
and 'eaps of money. 'E's got a wife already, but she's going to

poison 'er, too."
"She's a bad lot," said Bert with growing hostility.

"'Er mother 'ates her, and she's afraid of 'er, too, cos she's got a
serkestic tongue; always talking serkesms, she is. She's greedy,

too; if there's fish going, she eats 'er own share and 'er little
girl's as well, though the little girl is dellikit."

"She 'ad a little boy once," said Bert, "but she pushed 'im into the
water when nobody wasn't looking."

"No she didn't," said Emmeline, "she sent 'im away to be kep' by
poor people, so 'er 'usbind wouldn't know where 'e was. They ill-

treat 'im somethink cruel."
"Wot's 'er nime?" asked Bert, thinking that it was time that so

interesting a personality should be labelled.
"'Er nime?" said Emmeline, thinking hard, "'er nime's Morlvera." It

was as near as she could get to the name of an adventuress who
figured prominently in a cinema drama. There was silence for a

moment while the possibilities of the name were turned over in the
children's minds.

"Those clothes she's got on ain't paid for, and never won't be,"
said Emmeline; "she thinks she'll get the rich lord to pay for 'em,

but 'e won't. 'E's given 'er jools, 'underds of pounds' worth."
"'E won't pay for the clothes," said Bert, with conviction.

Evidently there was some limit to the weak good nature of wealthy
lords.

At that moment a motor carriage with liveried servants drew up at
the emporium entrance; a large lady, with a penetrating and rather

hurried manner of talking, stepped out, followed slowly and sulkily
by a small boy, who had a very black scowl on his face and a very

white sailor suit over the rest of him. The lady was continuing an
argument which had probably commenced in Portman Square.

"Now, Victor, you are to come in and buy a nice doll for your cousin
Bertha. She gave you a beautiful box of soldiers on your birthday,

and you must give her a present on hers."
"Bertha is a fat little fool," said Victor, in a voice that was as

loud as his mother's and had more assurance in it.
"Victor, you are not to say such things. Bertha is not a fool, and

she is not in the least fat. You are to come in and choose a doll
for her."

The couple passed into the shop, out of view and hearing of the two
back-street children.

"My, he is in a wicked temper," exclaimed Emmeline, but both she and
Bert were inclined to side with him against the absent Bertha, who

was doubtless as fat and foolish as he had described her to be.
"I want to see some dolls," said the mother of Victor to the nearest

assistant; "it's for a little girl of eleven."
"A fat little girl of eleven," added Victor by way of supplementary

information.
"Victor, if you say such rude things about your cousin, you shall go

to bed the moment we get home, without having any tea."
"This is one of the newest things we have in dolls," said the

assistant, removing a hobble-skirted figure in peach-coloured velvet
from the window; "leopard skin toque and stole, the latest fashion.

You won't get anything newer than that anywhere. It's an exclusive
design."

"Look!" whispered Emmeline outside; "they've bin and took Morlvera."
There was a mingling of excitement and a certain sense of

bereavement in her mind; she would have liked to gaze at that
embodiment of overdressed depravity for just a little longer.

"I 'spect she's going away in a kerridge to marry the rich lord,"
hazarded Bert.

"She's up to no good," said Emmeline vaguely.
Inside the shop the purchase of the doll had been decided on.

"It's a beautiful doll, and Bertha will be delighted with it,"
asserted the mother of Victor loudly.

"Oh, very well," said Victor sulkily; "you needn't have it stuck
into a box and wait an hour while it's being done up into a parcel.

I'll take it as it is, and we can go round to Manchester Square and
give it to Bertha, and get the thing done with. That will save me

the trouble of writing: 'For dear Bertha, with Victor's love,' on a
bit of paper."

"Very well," said his mother, "we can go to Manchester Square on our
way home. You must wish her many happy returns of to-morrow, and

give her the doll."
"I won't let the little beast kiss me," stipulated Victor.

His mother said nothing; Victor had not been half as troublesome as
she had anticipated. When he chose he could really be dreadfully

naughty.
Emmeline and Bert were just moving away from the window when

Morlvera made her exit from the shop, very carefully in Victor's
arms. A look of sinistertriumph seemed to glow in her hard,

inquisitorial face. As for Victor, a certain scornful serenity had
replaced the earlier scowls; he had evidently accepted defeat with a

contemptuous good grace.
The tall lady gave a direction to the footman and settled herself in

the carriage. The little figure in the white sailor suit clambered
in beside her, still carefully holding the elegantly garbed doll.

The car had to be backed a few yards in the process of turning.
Very stealthily, very gently, very mercilessly Victor sent Morlvera