Towards the end of a bright sunny afternoon in June, I was walking in one of the quieter streets of Piccadilly, when my eye was caught by two figures coming in my direction. One was that of a tall, finely-made woman about twenty-seven years of age, who would under other circumstances, have received something more than an approving glance. But it was her companion that rivetted my gaze of almost breathless admiration. This was a young girl of sixteen, of such astounding beauty of face and figure as I had never seen or dreamt of. Masses of bright, wavy, brown hair fell to her waist. Deep violet eyes looked out from under long curling lashes, and seemed to laugh in unison with the humorous curves of the full red lips. These and a thousand other charms I was to know by heart later on, but what struck me most at this view, was the extraordinary size and beauty of the girl's bust, shown to all possible advantage by her dress which, in the true artistic French style, crept in between her breasts, outlining their full and perfect form with loving fidelity. Tall and lithe, she moved like a young goddess, her short skirt shewing the action of a pair of exquisitely moulded legs, to which the tan-coloured open-work silk stockings were plainly designed to invite attention. Unable to take my eyes from this enchanting vision, I was approaching the pair, when to my astonishment, the elder lady suddenly spoke my name.

'You do not remember me, Captain Archer.' For a moment I was at a loss, but the voice gave me the clue.

'But I do,' I answered, 'you are Miss Letchford, who used to teach my sisters.'

'Quite right. But I have given up teaching, for which fortunately there is not longer any necessity. I am living in a flat with my dear little friend here. Let me introduce you,-Flossie Eversley-Captain Archer.'