LITMIR.BIZ

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her dress. Her complexion, skilfully put on, did not disgust Charlie, but rather inspired him with a gentle regret that it was too good to be genuine. The arrangement of the room was as remarkable as the costume of the hostess. The folding doors had been removed, and the partition built into an arch with a white pillar at each side. A curtain of silvery plush was gathered to one of side of this arch. The walls were painted a delicate sheeny grey, and the carpet resembled a piece of thick whitey-brown paper. The chairs of unvarnished wood, had rush seats, or else cushions of dull straw color or cinnamon. In compliance with a freak of fashion which prevailed just then, there were no less than eight lamps distributed about the apartments. These lamps had monstrous stems of pottery ware, gnarled and uncouth in design. Most of them represented masses of rock with strings of ivy leaves clinging to them. The ceiling was of a light maize color.

      Magdalen, surprised by the announcement of Mr Sutherland, was looking towards the door for him over the head of Jack, than whom she was nearly a head taller.

      “How d’ye do?” he said, startling her with his brassy voice.

      “My dear master,” she exclaimed, in the pure, distinct tone to which she owed much of her success on the stage. “So you have come to me at last.”

      “Aye, I have come at last,” he said, with a suspicious look. “I forgot all about you; but I was put in mind of your invitation by Charles. where’s Charles?”

      Charles was behind him, waiting to be received.

      “I am deeply grateful to you,” said Magdalen, pressing his hand. Charles, rather embarrassed than gratified, replied inarticulately; vouched for the health of his family; and retreated into the crowd.

      “I had ceased to hope that we should ever meet again,” she said, turning again to Jack. “I have sent you box after box that you might see your old pupil in her best parts; but when the nights came, the boxes were empty always.”

      “I intended to go — I should have gone. But somehow I forgot the time, or lost the tickets, or something. My landlady mislays things of that sort; or very likely she burns them.”

      “Poor Mrs Simpson! How is she?”

      “Alive, and mischievous, and long tongued as ever. I must leave that place. I can stand her no longer. Her slovenliness, her stupidity, and her disregard of truth are beyond belief.”

      “Dear, dear! I am very sorry to hear that, Mr. Jack.” Magdalen turned her eyes upon him with an expression of earnest sympathy which had cost her much study to perfect. Jack, who seldom recollected that the subject of Mrs Simpson’s failings was not so serious to the rest of the world as to himself, thought Magdalen’s concern by no means overstrained, and was about to enlarge on his domestic discomfort, when the servant announced “Mr Brailsford.”

      Jack slipped away, and his old enemy advanced, as sprucely dressed as ever, but a little more uncertain in his movements. Magdalen kissed him with graceful respect, as she would have kissed an actor engaged to impersonate her father for so many pounds a week. When he passed on and mingled with the crowd like any other visitor, she forgot him, and looked round for Jack. But he, in spite of his attempt to avoid Mr Brailsford, had just come face to face with him in a remote corner whither chance had led them both. Jack at once asked him how he did.

      “How de do,” said the old gentleman with nervous haste. “Glad to — I am sure.” Here he found his eyeglass, and was able to distinguish Jack’s features.

      “Sir,” said Jack: “I am an ill-mannered man on occasion; but perhaps you will overlook that and allow me to claim your acquaintance.”

      “Sir,” replied Brailsford, tremulously clasping his proffered hand: “I have always honored and admired men of genius, and protested against the infamous oppression to which the world subjects them. You may count upon me always.”

      “There was a time,” said Jack, with a glance at the maize-colored ceiling, “when neither of us would have believed that we should come to make two in a crowd of fashionable celebrities sitting round her footstool.”

      “She has made a proud position for herself, certainly. Thanks, as she always acknowledges, above all things to your guidance.”

      “Humph,” said Jack doubtfully. “I taught her to make the best of such vowels as there are left in our spoken language; but her furniture and her receptions are her own idea.”

      “They are the most ridiculous absurdities in London,” whispered Brailsford with sudden warmth. “To you, sir, I express my opinion without reserve. I come here because my presence may give a certain tone — a sanction — you understand me?” Jack nodded. “But I do not approve of such entertainments. I am at a loss to comprehend how the actress can so far forget the lady. This room is not respectable, Mr Jack: it is an outrage on taste and sensibility. However, it is not my choice: it is hers; and de gustibus non est disputandum. You will excuse my quoting my old school books. I never did so, sir, in my youth, when every fool’s mouth was full of scraps of Latin.”

      “There is a bad side to this sort of thing,” said Jack. “These fellows waste their time coming here; and she wastes her money on extravagances for them to talk about. But after all, there is a bad side to everything: she might indulge herself with worse follies. Now that she is her own mistress, we must all stand further off. Her affairs are not our business.”

      The old gentleman nodded several times in a melancholy manner. “There you have hit the truth, sir,” he said in a low voice. “We must all stand further off — I as well as others. A very just observation.”

      This dialogue, exceptionally long for a crowded afternoon reception in London, was interrupted by Magdalen coming to invite Jack to play, which he peremptorily refused to do, remarking that if the company were in a humor to listen to music, they had better go to church. The rebuff caused much disappointment; for Jack’s appearances in society, common as they had been during the season which preceded the first performance of Promethius, had since been very rare. Stories of his eccentricity and inaccessible solitude had passed from mouth to mouth until they became too stale to amuse or too exaggerated to be believed. His refusal to play was considered so characteristic that some of the guests withdrew at once in order that they might be the first to narrate the circumstances in artistic circles, which are more “at home” on Sundays than those of the more purely fashionable ones which have nothing particular to do on week days. Jack was about to go himself when the blue velvet sleeve touched his arm, and Magdalen whispered:

      “They will all go in a very few minutes now. Will you stay and let me have a moment with you alone? It is so long since I have had a word of advice from you.”

      Jack again looked suspiciously at her; but as she looked very pretty, he relented, saying good humoredly, “Get rid of them quickly, then. I have no time to waste waiting for them.”

      She set herself to get rid of them as well as she could, by pretending to mistake the purpose of men who came up to converse with her, and surprising them with effusive farewells. To certain guests with whom she did not stand on ceremony she confided her desire to clear the room; and they immediately conveyed her wishes to their intimate friends, besides setting an example to others by taking leave ostentatiously, or declaring in loud whispers that it was shamefully late; that dear Madge must be tired to death; and that they were full of remorse at having been induced by her delightful hospitality to stay so long. In fifteen minutes the company was reduced to five or six persons, who seemed to think, now that the crowd was over, that the time had come for enjoying themselves. A few of them, who knew each other, relaxed their ceremonious bearing; raised their voices; and entered into a discussion on theatrical topics in which they evidently expected Magdalen to join. The rest wandered about the rooms, and made the most of their opportunity of having a good look at the great actress and the great composer, who was standing at a window with his hands clasped behind him, frowning unapproachably. Mr Brailsford also remained; and he was the first to notice the air of exhaustion with which his daughter was mutely appealing to her superfluous guests.

      “My child,” he said: “are you fatigued?”

      “I

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