ss as had come to him that
evening while watching this unspeakable person in kilts murder that
part that should have been his. And the audience, confound them, had
roared with laughter at every damn silly thing the fellow had said!

"Eh?" he replied. "Oh, yes, rather, absolutely!"

"We're _all_ proud of you, Otie darling," proceeded Mrs. Peagrim.
"The piece is a wonderful success. You will make a fortune out of it.
And just think, Major Selby, I tried my best to argue the poor, dear
boy out of putting it on! I thought it was so rash to risk his money
in a theatrical venture. But then," said Mrs. Peagrim in extenuation,
"I had only seen the piece when it was done at my house at Newport,
and of course it really was rather dreadful nonsense then! I might
have known that you would change it a great deal before you put it on
in New York. As I always say, plays are not written, they are
rewritten! Why, you have improved this piece a hundred per cent, Otie!
I wouldn't know it was the same play!"

She slapped him smartly once more with her fan, ignorant of the gashes
she was inflicting. Poor Mr. Pilkington was suffering twin torments,
the torture of remorse and the agonized jealousy of the unsuccessful
artist. It would have been bad enough to have to sit and watch a large
audience rocking in its seats at the slap-stick comedy which Wally
Mason had substituted for his delicate social satire: but, had this
been all, at least he could have consoled himself with the sordid
reflection that he, as owner of the piece, was going to make a lot of
money out of it. Now, even this material balm was denied him. He had
sold out, and he was feeling like the man who parts for a song with
shares in an apparently goldless gold mine, only to read in the papers
next morning that a new reef has been located. Into each life some
rain must fall. Quite a shower was falling now into young Mr.
Pilkington's.

"Of course," went on Mrs. Peagrim, "when the play was done at my
house, it was acted by amateurs. And you know what amateurs are! The
cast to-night is perfectly splendid. I do think that Scotchman is the
most killing creature! Don't you think he is wonderful, Mr. Rooke?"

We may say what we will against the upper strata of Society, but it
cannot be denied that breeding tells. Only by falling back for support
on the traditions of his class and the solid support of a gentle
up-bringing was the Last of the Rookes able to crush down the words
that