rlotte, who now felt her wits
getting more under control. "Indeed, Mr Ogilvie, I have nothing to
reproach you with. I had no right to enquire what your profession was,
and still less have I a right to criticise it. But of course you will
understand that the subject we were speaking of must never be
mentioned again."

The lover sighed. It was not a bad situation, and his long experience
enabled him to make it quite effective. Silently he took his gloves
out of his hat, paused, and then dropped them in again, with the very
faintest and most dramatic gesture of despair. The action was trifling
in the extreme, but it was performed by a play-actor who knew his
business, and Aunt Charlotte felt as though cold water were running
down her back. Then he turned, quite beautifully, to Austin.

"And you, young gentleman. And what have _you_ to say?" he asked in a
carefully choking voice.

"That I like you even better in your present part than as
Sardanapalus," replied Austin, cordially.

"The tribute is two-edged," observed the actor with a shrug. And
certainly he had acted well, and dressed the character to perfection.
But the takings of the performance, alas, had not paid expenses. He
really had a sentiment for the lady he had been wooing, and the
prospect of a solid additional income--for it was clear she was in
very easy circumstances--had smiled upon him not unpleasantly. And
why should she not have married him? He was her equal in birth, they
had been possible lovers in their youth, he had made a name for
himself meanwhile, and, after all, there was no stain upon his honour.
But she had now definitely refused. The little comedy had been played
out. There was nothing for him to do but to make a graceful exit, and
this he did in a way that brought tears to the lady's eyes. "Oh, need
you go?" she urged with fatuous politeness. Austin was more friendly
still; he reminded Mr Ogilvie that having returned so late he had had
no opportunity of enjoying a renewal of their acquaintance, and begged
him to remain a little longer for a chat and a cigarette. But Mr
Ogilvie was too much of an artist to permit an anti-climax. The
catastrophe had come off, and the curtain must be run down quick. So
he wrenched himself away with what dignity he might, and, relapsing
into his natural or Buskin phase as soon as he got outside, comforted
himself with a glass of stiff whiskey and water at the refreshment bar
of the railway station before getti