llow is?" Mr. Prohack demanded, indicating a
little man with the aspect of a prize-fighter who was imperially
conveying to Mrs. Prohack that Mrs. Prohack was lucky to get him to her
reception.

"Why!" replied Mr. Bishop. "That's the Napoleon of the stage."

"Not Asprey Chown!"

"Asprey Chown."

"Great Scott!" And Mr. Prohack laughed.

"Why are you laughing?"

"Mere glee. This is the crown of my career as a man of the world." He
saw Mr. Asprey Chown give a careless brusque nod to Ozzie Morfey, and he
laughed again.

"It's rather comic, isn't it?" Mr. Softly Bishop acquiesced. "I wonder
why Oswald Morfey has abandoned his famous stock for an ordinary
necktie."

"Probably because he's going to be my son-in-law," said Mr. Prohack.

"Ah!" ejaculated Mr. Softly Bishop. "I congratulate him."

Mr. Prohack looked grim in order to conceal his joy in the assurance
that he would sleep that night, and in the sensations produced by the
clear fact that Lady Massulam was still interested in him. Somehow he
wanted to dance, not with any woman, but by himself, a reel.

"By Jove!" exclaimed Mr. Softly Bishop. "You _are_ shining to-night.
Here's Eliza Fiddle, and that's her half-sister Miss Fancy behind her."

And it was Eliza Fiddle, and the ageing artiste with her ravaged
complexion and her defiant extra-vivacious mien created instantly an
impression such as none but herself could have created. The entire
assemblage stared, murmuring its excitement, at the renowned creature.
Eliza loved the stare and the murmur. She was like a fish dropped into
water after a gasping spell in mere air.

"I admit I was in too much of a hurry when I spoke of having reached the
zenith," said Mr. Prohack. "I'm only just getting there now. And who's
the half-sister?"

"She's not precisely unknown on the American stage," answered Mr. Softly
Bishop. "But before we go any further I'd perhaps better tell you a
secret." His voice and his gaze dropped still lower. "She's a
particularly fine girl, and it won't be my fault if I don't marry her.
Not a word of course! Mum!" He turned away, while Mr. Prohack was
devising a suitable response.

"Welcome to your old home. And do come with me to the buffet. You must
be tired after your work," Mr. Prohack burst out in a bold, loud voice
to Eliza, taking her away from his wife, whose nearly exhausted tact
almost failed to hide her relief.

"I do hope you like the taste of my old home," Eliza answered. "My