THE SURBITON INTERLUDE
whom our dealings are, thank Goodness! over), there is a Coffee Tavern with a steak Mr. Hoopdriver ordered, done to a cinder long ago, his American-cloth parcel in a bedroom, and his own proper bicycle, by way of guarantee, carefully locked up in the hayloft. To-morrow he will be a Mystery, and they will be looking for his body along the sea front. And so far we have never given a glance at the desolate home in Surbiton, familiar to you no doubt through the medium of illustrated interviews, where the unhappy stepmother———
That stepmother, it must be explained, is quite well known to you. That is a little surprise I have prepared for you. She is "Thomas Plantagenet," the gifted authoress of that witty and daring book, "A Soul Untrammelled," and quite an excellent woman in her way,—only it is such a crooked way. Her real name is Milton. She is a widow and a charming one, only fifteen years older than Jessie, and she is always careful to dedicate her more daring works to the "sacred memory of my husband" to show that there's nothing personal, you know, in the matter. Considering her literary reputation (she was always speaking of herself as one "martyred for truth," because the critics advertised her written indecorums in column-long "slates"),—considering her literary reputation, I say, she was one of the most respectable women it is possible to imagine. She furnished correctly, dressed correctly, had severe notions of whom she might meet, went to church, and even at times, in some esoteric spirit, took the sacrament. And Jessie she brought up so carefully that she never even
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