n amusing story of Mr. Rowe's
beginnings; and Owen forgot his sentimental trouble; but the story
was interrupted by Lady Ascott coming down the room followed by her
attendants, her literary and musical critics.

"Every one of them most interesting, I assure you, Sir Owen. Mr.
Homer has just returned from Italy--"

"But I know Mr. Homer; we met long ago at Innes' concerts. If I am
not mistaken you were writing a book then about Bellini."

"Yes, 'His Life and Works.' I've just returned from Italy after two
years' reading in the public libraries."

Lady Ascott's musical critic was known to Owen by a small book he had
written entitled "A Guide to the Ring." Before he was a Wagnerian he
was the curator of a museum, and Owen remembered how desirous he was
to learn the difference between Dresden and Chelsea china. He had
dabbled in politics and in journalism; he had collected hymns,
ancient and modern, and Owen was not in the least surprised to hear
that he had become the director of a shop for the sale of religious
prints and statues, or that he had joined the Roman Church, and the
group watched him slinking round on the arm of a young man, one who
sang forty-nine songs by all the composers in Europe in exactly the
same manner.

"He is teaching Botticelli in his three manners," said Lady Ascott,
"and Cyril is thinking of going over to Rome."

"Asher, let us get away from this culture," Harding whispered.

"Yes, let's get away from it; I want to show you a table, the one on
which Evelyn used to write her letters. We bought it together at the
Salle Druot."

"Yes, Asher, yes; but would you mind coming this way, for I see
Ringwood. He goes by in his drooping mantle, looking more like an
umbrella than usual. Lady Ascott has engaged him for the season, and
he goes out with her to talk literature--plush stockings, cockade.
Literature in livery! Ringwood introducing Art!"

Owen laughed, and begged Harding to send his joke to the comic
papers.

"An excellent subject for a cartoon."

"He has stopped again. Now I'm sure he's talking of Sophocles. He
walks on.... I'm mistaken; he is talking about Moliere."

"An excellent idea of yours--'Literature in livery!'"

"His prose is always so finely spoken, so pompous, that I cannot help
smiling. You know what I mean."

"I've told you it ought to be sent to the papers. I wish he would
leave that writing-table; and Lady Ascott might at least ask him to
brush his coat."

"It s