The Man With Two Left Feet

is that Aunt Agatha conveys the impression that she considers me personally responsible for all the sin and sorrow in the world, while Aunt Julia's manner seems to suggest that I am more to be pitied than censured.
    If it wasn't that the thing was a matter of historical fact, I should be inclined to believe that Aunt Julia had never been on the vaudeville stage. She is like a stage duchess.
    She always seems to me to be in a perpetual state of being about to desire the butler to instruct the head footman to serve lunch in the blue–room overlooking the west terrace. She exudes dignity. Yet, twenty–five years ago, so I've been told by old boys who were lads about town in those days, she was knocking them cold at the Tivoli in a double act called 'Fun in a Tea–Shop', in which she wore tights and sang a song with a chorus that began, 'Rumpty–tiddley–umpty–ay'.
    There are some things a chappie's mind absolutely refuses to picture, and Aunt Julia singing 'Rumpty–tiddley–umpty–ay' is one of them.
    She got straight to the point within five minutes of our meeting.
    'What is this about Gussie? Why did you cable for me, Bertie?'
    'It's rather a long story,' I said, 'and complicated. If you don't mind, I'll let you have it in a series of motion pictures. Suppose we look in at the Auditorium for a few minutes.'
    The girl, Ray, had been re–engaged for a second week at the Auditorium, owing to the big success of her first week. Her act consisted of three songs. She did herself well in the matter of costume and scenery. She had a ripping voice. She looked most awfully pretty; and altogether the act was, broadly speaking, a pippin.
    Aunt Julia didn't speak till we were in our seats. Then she gave a sort of sigh.
    'It's twenty–five years since I was in a music–hall!'
    She didn't say any more, but sat there with her eyes glued on the stage.
    After about half an hour the johnnies who work the card–index system at the side of the stage put up the name of Ray Denison, and there was a good deal of applause.
    'Watch this act, Aunt Julia,' I said.
    She didn't seem to hear me.
    'Twenty–five years! What did you say, Bertie?'
    'Watch this act and tell me what you think of it.'
    'Who is it? Ray. Oh!'
    'Exhibit A,' I said. 'The girl Gussie's engaged to.'
    The girl did her act, and the house rose at her. They didn't want to let her go. She had to come back again and again. When she had finally disappeared I turned to Aunt Julia.
    'Well?' I said.
    'I like her work. She's an artist.'
    'We will now, if you don't mind, step a goodish way uptown.'
    And we took the subway to where Gussie, the human film, was earning his thirty–five per. As luck would have it, we hadn't been in the place ten minutes when out he came.
    'Exhibit B,' I said. 'Gussie.'
    I don't quite know what I had expected her to do, but I certainly didn't expect her to sit there without a word. She did not move a muscle, but just stared at Gussie as he drooled on about the moon. I was sorry for the woman, for it must have been a shock to her to see her only son in a mauve frockcoat and a brown top–hat, but I thought it best to let her get a strangle–hold on the intricacies of the situation as quickly as possible. If I had tried to explain the affair without the aid of illustrations I should have talked all day and left her muddled up as to who was going to marry whom, and why.
    I was astonished at the improvement in dear old Gussie. He had got back his voice and was putting the stuff over well. It reminded me of the night at Oxford when, then but a lad of eighteen, he sang 'Let's All Go Down the Strand' after a bump supper, standing the while up to his knees in the college fountain. He was putting just the same zip into the thing now.
    When he had gone off Aunt Julia sat perfectly still for a long time, and then she turned to me. Her eyes shone queerly.
    'What does this mean, Bertie?'
    She spoke quite quietly, but her voice shook a bit.
    'Gussie went into the business,' I said, 'because the girl's father wouldn't let him marry her unless he did. If you feel up to it perhaps you wouldn't mind tottering round to One Hundred and Thirty–third Street and having a chat with him. He's an old boy with eyebrows, and he's Exhibit C on my list. When I've put you in touch with him I rather fancy my share of the business is concluded, and it's up to you.'
    The Danbys lived in one of those big apartments uptown which look as if they cost the earth and really cost