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 Teashop,” 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.”