generously. So
discoursing they made their way to the verandah where Lady Harman had so
lately "poured."

Sir Isaac was borne along upon the lady's stream of words in a state of
mulish reluctance, nodding, saying "Of course" and similar phrases, and
wishing he was out of it all with an extreme manifestness. He drank his
tea with unmistakable discomfort, and twice inserted into the
conversation an entirely irrelevant remark that he had to be going. But
Lady Beach-Mandarin had her purposes with him and crushed these
quivering tentatives.

Lady Beach-Mandarin had of course like everybody else at that time her
own independent movement in the great national effort to create an
official British Theatre upon the basis of William Shakespear, and she
saw in the as yet unenlisted resources of Sir Isaac strong possibilities
of reinforcement of her own particular contribution to the great Work.
He was manifestly shy and sulky and disposed to bolt at the earliest
possible moment, and so she set herself now with a swift and
concentrated combination of fascination and urgency to commit him to
participations. She flattered and cajoled and bribed. She was convinced
that even to be called upon by Lady Beach-Mandarin is no light
privilege for these new commercial people, and so she made no secret of
her intention of decorating the hall of his large but undistinguished
house in Putney, with her redeeming pasteboard. She appealed to the
instances of Venice and Florence to show that "such men as you, Sir
Isaac," who control commerce and industry, have always been the
guardians and patrons of art. And who more worthy of patronage than
William Shakespear? Also she said that men of such enormous wealth as
his owed something to their national tradition. "You have to pay your
footing, Sir Isaac," she said with impressive vagueness.

"Putting it in round figures," said Sir Isaac, suddenly and with a white
gleam of animosity in his face, the animosity of a trapped animal at the
sight of its captors, "what does coming on your Committee mean, Lady
Beach-Mandarin?"

"It's your name we want," said the lady, "but I'm sure you'd not be
ungenerous. The tribute success owes the arts."

"A hundred?" he threw out,--his ears red.

"Guineas," breathed Lady Beach-Mandarin with a lofty sweetness of
consent.

He stood up hastily as if to escape further exaction, and the lady rose
too.

"And you'll let me call on Lady Harman," she said, honestly doing